Game, Set, Match
by elle-nora
Summary: New and on-going! In a far-off future, Duncan MacLeod fights his final battle to win the Game. But the Prize is something he never considered.
1. 1 Prologue

_**Game, Set, Match**_

_In the end... only kindness matters._

Jewel

Duncan MacLeod struggled to his feet and whirled to face his opponent... the Immortal Khan. He lifted his _katana_ to block Khan's massive two-handed stroke and shifted to his right... catching Khan's two-handed broadsword beneath his _katana_ and twisting... hoping against hope that the move was enough... that he was fast enough, agile enough and strong enough to trap Khan's blade long enough so that he could twist free and land his own stroke.

Khan roared his indignation, and pushed the Highlander off so that Duncan floundered for a moment, before crashing to the floor. Swiftly he rolled to his right to avoid Khan's downstroke and flipped backward... feet over his head to crouch a bit unsteadily. He swept the _katana_ before him, effectively blocking another of Khan's strokes.

Duncan's arms shook from the force of Khan's blows and the strength it took to stand against him. The two combatants pushed off and slowly circled one another, their blades flexing in their grip, sweat pouring from each of them.

"Submit, now!" ordered Khan, "and I will make it swift."

"Never!" shouted Duncan. Within him boiled rage at the immortal friends Khan had recently killed... Amanda, and then Methos. It was the game... and this was likely the final battle. MacLeod had made it until the end... and yet he felt no sense of accomplishment or triumph. He felt only a dull empty ache as he considered a life without those he'd lost.

From the beginning, he'd always known it could be this way. Immortals were doomed to kill one another until only one remained. Duncan had focused on surviving... never really contemplating what it would be like to be one of the final two. Now he was... and this _haggis_ had challenged and killed the others... leaving Duncan MacLeod for the final battle.

Sweat dripped into his eyes. Duncan blinked furiously and shook his head quickly... managing to keep his gaze focused on Khan, his eyes, his hands, every move the immortal made.

Then... Duncan saw it. A quick glance to the right... which Khan then followed with a left turn and a raised blade.

Seeing the opening... and seeing it for a trap... Duncan shifted to his right, turned and sliced forward.

For a moment... time stood still. Then Duncan's _katana_ met the momentary resistance of Khan's neck. Following through on the stroke and opening his arms as he crouched in the aftermath... Duncan waited.

The expression on Khan's face was one of surprise. Surprise that the smaller immortal had landed a blow! Surprise that it was over! Surprise... that he was dead! His brain was still firing thoughts... but his body was already slipping down and away. The blue-white of the quickening issued forth like a mighty torrent and roared into the Highlander.

He felt lifted up as the memories of his opponent lanced into him. He held the broadsword at Amanda's neck... he overpowered the world's most ancient immortal and took his head as was his right... He... Duncan MacLeod now held them all. All the immortals who'd ever been... save only a lost few... all their power and knowledge... everything.

Again and again the power roared about him and arced into the darkness. In the distance... above the roar... he could hear explosions and car alarms going off.

Then... as he fell to his knees and the power gentled about him... closing in like a warm grasp on his chest and throat... Duncan was suddenly aware that all was silence.

The iron grip loosened and fell away.

Duncan leaned on his hands and gasped... the pounding of his heart the only sound he heard... and then he glanced up.

The darkness of the summer night had paled... and all was a foggy gray. Wisps of fog moved about him and from somewhere... light grew... until the Highlander found himself lost in white light. The brightness paled until he was lost in a white and featureless landscape.

Rising in confusion, Duncan flexed his _katana_ in his right hand and turned slowly.

"Hello!" he called out. "Can anyone hear me? Is anyone here?"

Silence.

Then, Duncan thought he heard a soft _thud_, a _skritch_, and then another soft _thud_. The sounds continued for some moments. Curious, and cautious, Duncan headed in that direction. Again he called out. Again... there was no answer.

In the distance he began to make a huddled form. Heading in that direction, the Highlander at last came to the elderly man... playing... it seemed... Jacks. Again and again he bounced the ball with his left hand and grabbed a handful of the small metal pieces and then caught the ball. Over and over he bounced, grabbed and caught... until the white surface was clear. Then he began again.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Duncan said.

The old man paused his game and glanced up at the Highlander. His brown eyes, twinkling in his dark face were merry and gave no sign of confusion.

"Are you?" He returned to his game.

"What is this place? Who are you?" Duncan nudged the man with his _katana_.

"Oh... a real question?" Again he bent to his game.

"Answer me!" shouted Duncan as he grasped the man by the collar of his white robe.

"Should I?"

Duncan lay the _katana_ against the man's neck. "Answer me. Who are you?"

The old man met Duncan's gaze and smiled. "I am the arbiter of the change."

"You control the game?"

"No. I am the agent of the Source. I am here to arbitrate."

"The game's over." Duncan released the man's collar and stepped back.

"Is it?" The old man chuckled and bent again to his game of Jacks.

Duncan stepped forward and slammed a foot amongst the metal Jacks... scattering them and knocking the small multi-colored rubber ball away. "I want a straight answer. The game's over. What happens now?"

The old man sat back and crossed his legs. He ran a hand through his cottony white hair and stared at MacLeod with amusement. "What do you want to happen?"

"Stop answering my questions with questions!"

"Is that what I'm doing?"

Duncan groaned and turned about as he counted to ten. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "My name is Duncan MacLeod. What's your name?"

"What would you like it to be?"

Duncan just glared.

"Oh very well. Since you refuse to call me the arbiter... you may call me Abraham."

"Abraham," replied Duncan.

"Abraham," the old man said with a slight bow of his head.

Duncan sighed and looked around. He gestured toward the white distance. "Where are we?"

"Where would you like to be?"

"Now stop that!" Duncan groaned as he sat down on the white surface next to Abraham. "I'm trying to learn what happens next,"

"What do you want to happen?"

Duncan stared and then the nature of Abraham's questions became clear in his mind. "I can make the world around me?"

"If you say so," Abraham said and flipped his right hand so that the scattered Jacks jumped into his hand. He pointed with his left forefinger so that the small ball leaped into his left hand. Smiling, the old man tossed the Jacks and bounced the ball, carefully picking up one Jack each time the ball was in the air. Then he'd catch the ball and begin again.

"What do I have to decide?" Duncan asked quietly.

"Oh... if you had it all to do over... what would you change?" Abraham winked as he continued his game. "What choices that you made, would you make differently. If you could save someone, would you? Should you? Especially knowing that in the end... this is the prize."

"What would I do differently?" MacLeod chortled a moment. "There are many things I'd change."

"Let's say you were limited to making three changes in your life. That you could reach back into time and make a change. Who would you save? Who would you kill sooner rather than later? If you could make another choice on going left or right at the fork in the road at some point... would you make the other choice?"

"I could change anything?"

"And go back and live your life over from that moment... with no knowledge of the end. If you could change three things... and then after the third one... return to your life... would the outcome differ? Or would you only make things worse?"

Duncan stared at the bouncing ball and considered closely the offer. He'd always been told that the game would give the winner ultimate power. What could be more powerful than changing the past... and the lives of his loved ones... so that there were other choices to be made? "I wouldn't recall this?" He motioned about the two of them at the white.

"This?" Abraham said. "Of course not... because it would not have happened. Understand Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod... that to live life over... will not guarantee that you win the game the next time."

Duncan nodded. It was dangerous to make deals with magical beings... and he had no doubt that despite his rather unassuming demeanor... that Abraham was a magical being. "What if I choose to change nothing?" the Highlander finally asked.

"Oh... then I fade away and you inherit the world... such as it is," Abraham smiled and gestured around them. "It might be a bit lonely, though. You _have_ killed all the others."

"No," Duncan grinned. "Khan killed many of them... I only killed the ones who faced me."

"Yet within you they all exist."

"Not all," Duncan said with a sigh.

"Ah... you wish to change something, then?"

Duncan glanced up sharply. He did in fact regret the loss of Darius... that his quickening was not a part of who he now was. Could he return to that long ago spring day in Paris... and prevent Darius' murder at the hands of mortals. Could his friend then have another chance to live or die within the game? He wondered.

Abraham was grasping four Jacks at a time by this time. "The game is easy enough at the beginning... the longer it goes on... the more difficult the moves."

Tessa crossed Duncan's mind. If he'd known about the young junkie, Mark, could he have prevented her death? Could they have had that life together? Could he have watched her grow old and die? And in saving Tessa... what would happen to Richie? Would he have still killed him?

"And after reaching the level where all twelve Jacks must be grasped in a single fluid move... can you still manage to grasp the ball and lose nothing? After that, of course... you begin again."

Duncan nodded. He'd reached the final level... what was left except to begin again.

"Do I have to re-live my entire life?"

"Oh... no," Abraham smiled. "As I tried to explain. There are regrets in your life. There are things you did or failed to do... that given the opportunity... you would change. Now... some of those changes may change everything... and some may change very little the final outcome. But..." he smiled triumphantly, "some may change your life for the better."

Duncan stared.

Abraham handed Duncan the Jacks and the ball. "The further back you go... the great the change might be. I cannot guarantee what would happen."

"But I wouldn't know I was changing anything?"

"Oh... well... actually..." Abraham sighed. "From here... you can watch the events unfold. From here... the you that is here can make three changes in the tapestry of your life. Once all three are made... you will fade into your life at that point... and a different life will unfold based on those three choices."

"With no memory at that point of this?" Duncan waved about the white one more time.

Abraham nodded. "Exactly."

Slowly Duncan tossed the Jacks onto the surface and bounced the ball. While it was in the air, he swept a Jack into his hand and easily caught the ball.

"Why did you choose that Jack," Abraham asked softly.

"No reason," Duncan replied.

"But the changes you make... the lives you change... must have a reason. At least... they should have a meaning and a reason for you."

Duncan stared at the metal Jack in his palm. Slowly he smiled. "I'd want to save Darius from the Hunters. We shouldn't have lost him."

"That is your first choice, then?" Abraham asked.

Duncan nodded. "Yes. He should have had a choice as to how he faced his end... All he was should never have been lost."

"Then bounce the ball, Duncan MacLeod... and grab for the Jack."

Duncan stared at the blue-green ball... swirled with white and thought of how Earth-like it was. Slowly he bounced it and reached for the red metal Jack lying off to one side. Then he grabbed for the ball.


	2. 2 The Hunters

_**Author's Note: **Yes... obviously there is more. This scenario was first dreamed up during the series' run. I've made a few changes to allow for things that occurred after I'd thought of it... and... for **Endgame**, although that won't impact on the immediate events. for the record... this a different AU than my Eleanor stories. I'm posting as I write... so be warned that updates may be erratic. _elle

* * *

**2**

As the spring Paris day faded into sight about him... replacing the featureless white that had been there before... Duncan felt an odd sense of _deja vu_. His stomach lurched within him as he realized that on this day... at this time... he was making love to Tessa on the barge. Even as he stood at the gate of _St. Julien le Pauvre_ and felt the once more the comforting presence of an old friend... he understood he had not been here for him so long ago.

Duncan stepped quickly onto the grounds, knowing that Darius likely felt him as well... and would be curious. He climbed the stairs to throw back the door... already worried that he might be too late.

But whatever fate had allowed him to come here and change the past had seemed to also allow him the time he needed. He strode forcefully up the nave and headed for the immortal priest's quarters where he opened the door.

Darius was sitting at a table looking weary. Glancing up at Duncan he smiled. "Duncan... I did not expect you today."

Duncan closed the cell door behind him. "You have to leave here, my friend and leave now." Crossing his friend's quarters, Duncan seized him by the arm and pulled Darius to his feet.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Someone is coming to kill you. They will be here in minutes. You need to leave."

"I'm on holy ground, Duncan," Darius chuckled. "What could go wrong? If I die... I die. I've died before."

"Not like this," Duncan insisted. "Please! Listen to me. You need to leave here. You need to vanish from sight for a while. Go! And go now!" Crossing to the stone wall he pulled out the scrap of tartan and the short wooden beam, then held up the book that had lain hidden there... the Watcher's Third Chronicle. "_They_ are coming!"

"Watchers?" Darius said curiously. "How do you know about them?"

"I just do."

Darius shook his head. "They watch only Duncan. We have nothing to fear from them."

"Listen to me!" Duncan crossed to his friend and grabbed him by the arms. "There is a faction within them that is killing immortals. They are coming here today for you!"

Darius laughed. "My death would do them no good."

"Nevertheless they are coming." Duncan turned and shoved the book back into the hole in the wall and resettled the wooden beam and the scrap of tartan. Once done he met Darius' gaze. "You need to vanish my friend... for a time... until it is safe for you once more."

He crossed to where he knew a secret door stood. A door he'd not known about on this long ago day. He reached into a small hole and pulled the mechanism so that the door opened... as always with a small _poof_ of air. He held out a hand to Darius. "Go, my friend. And lock this behind you so that they cannot follow."

Suddenly the priest's eyes opened wider and he stared. Comprehension dawned on him. "You won the game," Darius said softly.

Duncan's gaze narrowed. "How do you...?" His voice faded away. "You won it yourself."

Darius nodded. "Yes... lifetimes ago. Is my death truly something you regret and need changed?"

Duncan nodded. "I would not have all that you are be lost. You are the best of us."

"Am I?" Darius slipped his hands into his sleeves. "Do you have any concept of the things I did in my other lives? Do you know how often I changed things... won the game... and was still filled with regrets? I was determined for this life... to remain out of the game. I took the other road... and my life has been the better for it."

"As have ours... Now go, Darius... before it's too late."

Darius took a deep breath and nodded. Glancing about his cell he sighed. "I shall miss this place... and the peace I found here."

"Find another place. Live another life. Make new choices," Duncan insisted and motioned Darius forward."

"Until we meet again, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Peace be with you!" Darius slipped into the opening and the secret door was pulled shut. Duncan could hear a solid _clunk_ and knew that it was now locked... and would not open from this side.

Outside the cell, in the church proper, he heard the main door slam open and the sounds of men approaching.

Duncan turned to face them. He fingered his _katana_. He was on holy ground and couldn't fight back... but he could escape and kill James Horton! This time Horton would not have the opportunity to kill and threaten so many of them.

The door of the cell opened and...

* * *

The world vanished into the white featureless landscape. Duncan sat cross-legged on the surface... the ball and the single red Jack in his hand.

"You should have let me stay!"

"But you were never there," reminded Abraham. "You were on your barge. In moments... your friend Fitzcairn arrives and the two of you will talk about mead and missing friends. Don't you remember?"

"But Horton!"

"You killed Horton. Oh true... it wasn't this day... but you killed him. Consider what killing him that day at the church might mean. Consider not just who was saved... but who might die as a result of your actions."

"I don't understand."

"Ah," Abraham smiled and gathered the Jacks into his hands. "For no reason they can fathom, the Watchers learn that Duncan MacLeod has killed a number of them without reason. Suddenly a state of war would exist between Watchers and immortals."

"Joe would understand. I'll talk to him."

"You haven't met Dawson at this time of your life. You would meet him only because you followed the clues in the book you found in Darius' cell."

Duncan sat back. "Without Darius' death... would I still find the book?"

"Oh... he understands enough that he will vanish and most of the events of that time will follow suit. Except of course, that he isn't dead. But to you and Fitzcairn... he has vanished... and the two of you will feel the need to find him."

"About that..." Duncan smiled at Abraham. "Darius remembered this place."

"Did he?" Abraham shifted the Jacks back and forth between his hands.

"You said once time had reset I would have no memory of this!" Duncan gestured about him.

"And you won't... not clearly."

"Then I will retain some memory?"

Abraham sighed. "Well... once the you that is here merges with the past you... some elements of the past that you recall may give the new you a moment of otherworldliness... _deja vu_... or a sense that things are somehow other than they were. You won't... as a rule... give it much mind. To you it will be like a dream you might have had.

"And Darius?"

"What about him?"

"He won the game."

"Several times." Abraham smiled.

"Have I been here before?"

"Not that I'm aware of?"

"What about Connor? Or Methos?"

"I really can't discuss this." Abraham tossed the Jacks on the surface and stared at them. "Each time the Jacks are thrown... there is an infinite number of ways they can be gathered. There are an infinitesimal number of choices one makes in one's life. The game gives you a chance to explore a different path for three of those choices. I cannot say how the effects of those choices will impact on other things."

"But killing Horton would start a war."

Abraham shrugged. "The deaths of Horton and his people that day would have no connection to anything else. All the Watchers would know... was that Duncan MacLeod had suddenly begun killing them. The Duncan of that time would be unprepared... and unwarned. Likely he, and those he cared about would die."

"Methos would..." Again Duncan was silent. "I didn't know Methos then. He didn't know me."

"Methos would play his hiding game until he'd have to leave... as he did later. Eventually Kronos would catch up with him and..." Abraham gestured with one hand as if the clenching action he made said it all.

"You seem to know that path fairly well."

"Oh... Do I?" Abraham began humming something under his breath, as he tried to look innocent.

So... what now?"

"Now... we watch for a while." He reached for the ball. Duncan handed it to him reluctantly and watched as Abraham gave it a test bounce and caught it easily. Then he held it up to his eye and smiled. He bounced the ball one more time and this time... he grabbed six Jacks into his hand and caught the ball.

* * *

"He's not here," Fitzcairn said from nearby.

"He's always here," Duncan replied as he gave Fitzcairn a worried look. Swiftly they raced into _St. Julien le Pauvre_. A number of chairs had been tossed about as if someone had angrily moved them. Duncan had an odd sense of _deja vu_. He raced up the nave, fearfully checking the side apses. He saw no one. Raggedly he let out a long breath that he hadn't even realized he was holding.

Turning toward the cell door... Duncan opened it and pushed it back. The door swung slowly inward. Duncan gasped. The room had been rifled. Pillows had been sliced... furniture overturned... books pulled from the shelves and tossed unceremoniously onto the floor. He stepped in and gazed around at the destruction.

"What?"

Behind him he sensed Fitzcairn's approach.

"I looked around back and didn't see him. Good heavens!" Fitz was suddenly silent in the face of the rifled room. "He's not in there... is he?"

"No..." Duncan replied. "At least I don't think so." He stepped back and stared at one of the empty apses. A chill clambered up and down his spine... as if someone were walking on his grave. Shaking his head as if to clear it of the confusing thoughts running rampant, he said forcefully. "Let's help straighten things up so that anyone who happens by won't notice anything." He reached down and picked up several of Darius' Civil War soldiers from his display of the Battle of Gettysburg... a display that lay upended on the floor.

"We'll never get it back the way it was," Fitz breathed. "There's so much damage."

Duncan nodded. "It's as if someone came looking for something... and didn't find it... or at least... not easily or quickly."

"What happened to Brother Darius?"

"I don't know. Maybe they took him with them."

"He'd have fought. I know he would have fought," Fitzcairn insisted.

"Would he?" Duncan righted a chair and then picked up two sliced pillows and stood with them in his hands as he turned about. "Would he have fought to survive? I've seen him accept death in this very church. He seemed to have no fear of it."

"Then there's still a hope he may be alive. Let's hurry, then, Duncan... perhaps we'll find a clue as to what's happened. If not... there are some things at my room in the inn that might give us some leads."

"Either that... or maybe someone around here saw something. If he struggled as he was led away... perhaps someone took notice."

The two men worked for nearly an hour straightening things in both the cell and the church proper. Duncan still didn't feel like things were as they should have been... but it was the best he could do. Darius had so many things in his rooms. Many were gifts of his students... he'd told MacLeod... both mortal and immortal over the years.

"I don't get out much. This way... I see the world through other's eyes," he'd said with that slight shrug of the shoulder and his secretive smile that seemed to indicate the priest knew far more that was going on than he let on.

Almost reverently... Duncan reset the chess game, as it had been when they'd stopped yesterday... rather than, as it would be at the beginning of a game. He leaned close to the pieces and stared at them... almost imploring them to speak to him.

They didn't, of course.

"Shall we go? My lodgings are not far?" Fitz pulled out his pipe... and then seemed to think better of lighting it. "He never did like me smoking in here for some reason."

"Don't," Duncan said straightening.

"Don't what?"

"Talk as if he's dead. Until I see his body... I have to believe he's alive."

"Point taken," Fitz agreed. "Shall we?"

The two immortals left the church, using Duncan's _Citroen_ to drive to Fitz's lodgings... an eighteenth century inn... now a boarding house that he'd used before. While climbing the stairs... the men noticed the man watching for and evidently waiting for Fitz. They accosted him... chased after him and his companion who raced from Fitz's room and into the street.

Duncan managed to get the man onto the ground.

"Where's Darius?" he yelled. "Where's Darius?"

The man fearfully clamped down on the side of his mouth and gasped. Duncan pulled back... noting the smell of bitter almonds... cyanide.

"Why? Why die rather than talk to me?" He lifted the man's hand and saw the odd tattoo on the man's wrist. He'd seen this mark before... on another dead man... long ago. An old man who'd stumbled into a non-immortal duel between Duncan, Fitzcairn, and a couple of mortal attackers had worn a medallion that bore this symbol. "What?" It made no sense.

Feeling Fitzcairn pass... Duncan looked up and realized his friend had not been quite so lucky. He was a prisoner of this man's companions. Never had Duncan felt so helpless. He'd lost two of his dearest friends in a matter of hours. Despite his words to Fitzcairn... he did not think Darius was still alive... and he feared that Fitz would soon follow him.

Sorrowfully, he returned to the barge to inform Tessa.

* * *

"Nothing's changed," Duncan said to Abraham.

"Oh... but it has. Darius lived that day due to your entrance into that time from here."

"But everything else is essentially the same. The church was rifled... we straightened it. Fitz was kidnapped. Look... even Tessa is now telling Richie what's happened. I still think Darius is dead."

"Then all is at should be. Otherwise... you would not return to his cell and search for a clue."

"The book... the Watcher's Chronicle."

"Yes. The book that will lead you to your staunchest ally and one of your dearest mortal friends. The man who will believe you and vouch for you... against his own brother-in-law."

"But what about Fitzcairn. Will my interference cost him his life?"

"Fitzcairn died at Kalas' hands a few years later. You know that."

Duncan sat silently for a few moments. "This means we go back to Seacouver in a few weeks."

"Yes."

Duncan shuddered as he realized what he needed to do. He reached out his hands for the ball and the Jacks. "I know what I have to change next."


	3. 3 The Darkness

**Author's Note: **S_omeone asked... is this "A Wonderful Life"? Well that remains to be seen. For everything changed... new problems arise. However... for this chapter... we see how well Duncan slips back into his former life._

**3**

Duncan felt a chill in the air as he found himself on the Seacouver street on an October night. Already he could sense the onset of late fall. He shivered in the darkness and waited... outside the Tudor influenced house with stained glass windows... a house he'd never wanted to see again.

Parked in the street he could see his old black Thunderbird... he'd sold that car decades ago. It had finally ceased to be an economical means of transportation... not to mention finding parts or someone skilled enough to work on it. Still... it had been an impressive piece of engineering.

He saw the door of the house open. Immediately his heart leaped into his throat and he gasped at the sight of Tessa... alive. And with her Richie... still pre-immortal. He knew that he... the Duncan of this time was still inside... hoping to find something on the computer or in the records of this renegade Watcher that would help him get a handle on this. Richie led Tessa to the car. But instead of getting in... she stood looking around in the darkness... and rubbing her arms against the chill. For one brief moment... Duncan thought she sensed him somehow... her eyes traveled over the shadow where he stood... waiting.

He didn't have long to wait. Even as Richie covered Tessa's shoulders with a jacket, Duncan saw the young junkie approach.

He couldn't hear the words clearly... but he got the gist of it... as first Richie and then Tessa held hands up and reached for wallets, rings, anything.

Duncan did what he was here to do... he rushed forward out of the shadows and cold-cocked the young man on the back of the neck... catching him as he fell. For a moment he considered doing more. Then he recalled that this same young man would find a way out of this life... and a woman to love him... and that there was a child waiting to be born. Duncan wasn't here to change Mark's life... only the regrets of his own.

He turned as Tessa slipped into his embrace.

"Mac? How did you know?"

Duncan held her in his arms and nearly wept at the feel of her. He could smell the scent of hair and the remnants of her perfume. He'd gotten rid of all her clothes after she'd died... so he'd not be suddenly reminded of that scent. But smelling it again... even after all this time... nearly undid him.

He found her mouth and kissed her... hungrily... like a man long starved. His hands ranged over her for a moment and then he simply pulled her close. He needed to let her go... and yet, he couldn't... not yet.

"Hey, Mac... I thought you were stayin' around here. Is something up? How did you know 'bout that guy."

"I saw something from the window," Duncan mumbled. Slowly he tipped Tessa's face up and smiled. "I needed to make certain you got home all right."

"Yeah... Well, that guy... he had a gun."

"I know, Richie."

"Thank goodness you were watching out for us Mac," Tessa said with a warm smile... but there was a question in her eyes as she focused... really focused on the man she loved.

Duncan stepped back, letting the shadows fall over his face. "Get her home safely, Richie. I still have to finish up upstairs."

"Yeah... sure Mac. What about him?" Richie pointed to the young man groaning and awakening on the street.

"I'll deal with him," Duncan said levelly. "Get Tessa home. I'll see you there, sweetheart." He pulled back until his arm stretched before him... the tips of his fingers barely touching hers. He pulled his hand back so that his fingertips touched his lips... then he held them up as if they passed his kiss on to her through them.

Tessa repeated the motion. "Don't be long," she said.

"I'll try not to be."

Duncan stood in the street as Richie drove the T-Bird up the street. He closed his eyes... hoping that this was enough... that they'd make it safely home... that he'd saved both of their lives. Perhaps in saving Richie's life to grow older and learn more before his first death and eventual immortality... he'd be able to prevent that final confrontation in the Paris amusement park. He'd prevent his killing of Richie. Hopefully... if Ahriman was still his foe on that far-off day... Duncan MacLeod would find another way to defeat him... another way rather than facing the killing of his own student.

He shivered in the cold Seacouver night. At the sounds of Mark's awakening, Duncan turned and crouched next to him. "Listen to me, Mark. You have a full measure of life before you. Don't waste it this way."

The young man met his gaze with confusion. "How do you...? My name... How do you?" He shook his head.

Duncan clasped the young man's head in one massive hand. "Listen to me. You're getting a second chance. Make the most of it. Get some help." He released him and grabbed the gun as he stood up.

He emptied the bullets and threw them forcefully into the darkness. Then he turned in another direction and tossed the hated gun. He could hear it land with a _thud_. "Go home, Mark. Live another life. Make another choice. You almost killed two people tonight. Let the knowledge of what almost happened live in you. Don't do this again." Duncan's voice almost broke in a sob.

"Yeah... sure... Whatever!" The young man backed away... his hands spread before him." I just needed... you know..."

"Money. Take what they offered. It isn't much... but it will have to do. Now go... before I regret letting you live."

Mark grabbed for the dropped jewelry, watch, and money and ran off into the night.

Duncan watched him go... aware only that the darkness surrounding him was gradually getting lighter.

* * *

He opened his eyes on the featureless white plain and stared at the three Jacks... one green and two blues... in his hand.

"It's important to accomplish what you need... to undo the regret without creating too many unforeseen changes."

"Tessa will live."

"For now. But she is still mortal and will grow old and die."

"And Richie?" Duncan felt wiped out, and the tone of his voice reflected that.

Abraham chuckled. "Well... he is immortal as you well know... but he will have time to live a bit longer and gain additional maturity before being faced with what he will have to face."

"Time," Duncan replied. "He always needed more time. And more attention than I could give him at first. I shorted him. I was mourning Tessa and I just couldn't seem to really focus on all the things he needed from me. I hurt him and his chances for survival."

"You did, indeed." Abraham reached for the ball and Jacks in MacLeod's hand and gathered the others.

"So what now?"

"You've remade the destinies of two people with that choice... and that is that."

Duncan eyed him curiously. "I can live this life with Tessa and Richie as it could have been lived."

Abraham nodded with a smile. "Those you met in the following weeks will still come... but the circumstances of your life are now different. How long they remain so... is up to you."

"I don't understand?"

"You have changed the lives and destinies of three people. You have changed three of the regrets of your life."

"Only two!" Duncan snapped.

"But you addressed two of your regrets with this last change. You have given Tessa another chance for a life. You have given Richie the chance to live a mortal life for a while longer... and give both of you a second chance at what must yet come to pass."

"So I go back into my life."

"Yes."

"Remembering nothing of this."

"Yes. Although... as I said... there may be instances when you will recall things differently... and then seek to resolve your memory with what you see. Remember how you stared at the apse in Darius' church. It was empty... and yet you could recall his body lying there."

"Yes," Duncan breathed out.

"Sometimes... as events happen... the old memories may surface."

"Will I still meet Methos?"

"Perhaps."

"Become friends with Dawson?"

"I think so."

"Will I find Darius, again."

"That remains to be seen based on the choices he makes. Really Mr. MacLeod, you should take this slowly. Resume your life in October 1993... and see what happens. "

Duncan faced the white landscape wearily. Part of him was excited by this turn of events... and part of him was fearful. "What if I don't win the next time?"

"Most win only once... although a few have won several times." Abraham shrugged. "A mortal writer once wrote that even the wise cannot foresee all things. And... I am not all that wise. My knowledge is limited to what has been. Not necessarily what will be. I am not the source, Duncan... I am only the arbiter of the change."

Duncan laughed. "Then it's a matter of luck."

"Luck... and skill. What was can be so again. But this time... you will not be hampered by the guilt involving these three people."

"I have other regrets."

"Yes. But I note that those were not at the forefront of your mind. Instead it was these three which occurred so closely together that molded and shaped all the days that followed after. Without these losses... how will your life play out? That, my young friend, remains to be seen."

Duncan nodded his agreement. Strangely he already felt lighter... just knowing that these three people had another chance for life. Only time would show whether or not he'd made the right decisions. There were immortals out there who would come for him... and having a live Tessa and a still pre-immortal Richie to watch over... might change his reactions to some of them. Perhaps he'd be in different places at different times and meet new and different immortals.

He still hoped to meet Methos... and that the Ancient puzzle that had been Death would still be his friend. He hoped that he and Amanda would still have that time together further down the road.

With a start... he recalled Connor and what had happened to him.

Glancing fearfully at Abraham he said," Connor... will I still have to kill him?"

Abraham shrugged. "Maybe... maybe not. Maybe if your life is different enough at that point... you'll find another way that will allow both of you to survive."

"And Ahriman. He'll come for me again... won't he?"

"Yes."

"He'll have something different in mind for me."

"Yes."

Duncan lowered his head. He'd had regrets, which he had wanted to redress. He'd had things he'd wanted different in his life... a chance for something other than what had been. Had he made things worse for those he cared about? Glancing at Abraham's solemn face he nodded. "I'm ready," he said. Although in truth... he was far from ready.

Abraham set the Jacks in one hand and the ball in the other. "Then play the game, Duncan MacLeod and see if the end result... is the same... even with the changes.

Duncan tossed the Jacks onto the surface, noting that the pattern was different this time. He took a deep breath, bounced the ball... and grabbed for all twelve Jacks.

* * *

The dream of a white landscape faded into the reality of white sheets... and the pillow fluffed and molded to his face.

Duncan MacLeod opened one eye and stared groggily about the bedroom that he shared with Tessa Noel at the back of their antique store. The dark mahogany of the antique furniture offset the white walls, the white curtains and the white bedding.

From the adjacent bathroom he could hear water running. Rolling over he stared through the open door at the steam rising inside the shower of glass blocks. Vaguely he could see her though the steam... tall, athletic, golden-haired Tessa... the woman he loved... the woman he planned to marry.

Placing his hands behind his head... he stared at her with a wide grin. Just down the hall... he could sense the light hum of Richie... obviously up and making for the kitchen.

Duncan sobered. For a moment he tried to focus on what seemed different. But it escaped him. Rising... he tossed off the white sheets and grabbed his silk robe, carefully tying it around him. He needed to see Richie... and then he and Tessa would have a long morning before them... but Richie first.

Entering the kitchen he saw the nineteen-year-old young man that he'd welcomed into his house and life over a year ago. He'd wanted to keep an eye on him after he had seen Duncan's challenge with Slan Quince last year... and... since he was pre-immortal... Duncan had taken the daring step of telling the boy more about immortals than he'd ever told any pre-immortal. It was dangerous for them to know of their own potential. And safer for them if they didn't hang around immortals. But Duncan had wondered if Richie knowing about immortals might make him better able to handle the change when it happened... if it happened.

He truly liked the young man... and in the year that the boy had been with him and Tessa, he'd matured a great deal. An interior voice kept repeating, however, _he's too young yet. He needs time_.

Richie was standing before the open refrigerator... staring at the food on the shelves.

"See anything edible?" Duncan teased.

"What? Oh hey, Mac... I didn't hear you," Richie said blushing. He turned back to the open refrigerator and leaned in to peer at the food more closely.

Duncan lifted one leg onto a barstool and rested against the seat... not quite sitting, not quite standing. "If it's warm in here... the air conditioner can be turned back on."

Richie pulled his head out of the refrigerator and looked across the kitchen at MacLeod. Then he stared at the open door. His mouth made a big "O!" slowly he shut the door.

"Thank you," smirked Duncan.

"Uh... yeah... Big guy. Sorry about that. All my foster parents tried to break me of that for years."

"Which means it will happen again tomorrow."

"Pretty much. But hey..." Richie slapped Duncan's arm. "You'll always be there to remind me again."

The smile left Duncan's face as some semblance of a time without the young man fluttered through his thoughts. He shook his head. "At least until you're on your own. Then, I suppose... you'll have to remind yourself."

"Uh... right." Richie turned and opened the refrigerator... grabbing the jug of milk, the carton of eggs, butter, cheese, and bacon. "Thought I'd make an omelet."

"Do you know how?"

"Uh... break the eggs into a bowl, stir, mix in milk and cheese, and drop into hot buttered skillet. Right?"

Duncan snorted. "That's one way."

Richie nodded and began his preparations. "Do you want one?"

"No... not now. Maybe later. Listen... Rich. I want to spend some time with Tessa today. The past few days were really rough on her."

"Oh yeah, Mac. I understand completely."

"Can you watch the store today?"

"Sure Mac... _no problemo_!" Richie grinned as he began whipping the eggs.

Duncan watched him a moment longer and then rose to return to the bedroom. As he opened the door, he saw Tessa in her white robe, sitting on the edge of the bed toweling her hair. Duncan smiled and closed the door... pulling the sash of his silk robe loose as he approached her.

"I wondered where you'd gone?" Tessa said in that smoky French-accented voice he adored.

"Oh... I just wanted to make certain we wouldn't be disturbed."

He dropped his robe and pulled Tessa to her feet... kissing her neck and fumbling with the sash of her robe. Finally he pulled it free and eased the robe off of her shoulders.

"Ma-a-ac!" Tessa's laughter was soft against his cheek. "You act like it's been years... not hours since we last did this. I can't stay in bed all day."

"Why not?" Duncan murmured as his tongue caressed her ear lobe and his hands found her breasts. Already he was more than ready. He began to maneuver her back against the bed and then pushed her down onto the mattress so that he could properly make love to her.

"Mac! You are insatiable!" she laughed.

"Yes! I am!" Duncan said and wondered why it felt as if he hadn't made love to her in centuries. He pushed the thought away as some part of the stress of the past few days and concentrated fully on her pleasure. He had no other plans than to spend the day in bed.


	4. 4 An Eye for an Eye, part 1

**Author's Note: **_Thanks for the nice comments, everyone. Now we begin to see a re-interpretation of the series... beginning with the second season episode... **An Eye for an Eye**. Duncan's three changes begin to impact on the life he had the first time. These changes will present interesting challenges._ elle

* * *

**4**

"I'm not taking your name... Mac, no matter how much you beg," Tessa said a few days later. She was sipping tea over breakfast in bed.

Duncan's expression reflected sadness for a moment. Then he smiled bravely. "That might be for the best."

Tessa laughed and leaned forward to kiss him. "I love you. But I'm an artist in my own right. Patrons and buyers know me as Tessa Noel. I can't suddenly go around calling myself Tessa MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

"No," agreed Duncan with resignation. "You can't. Besides... with the Gathering at hand... perhaps you'd be safer if you keep your own name."

Tessa settled back against the pillows. "Now that that is settled... when and where?"

"Maybe Vegas this weekend? Tess... I don't want to wait. I have this horrible feeling that we shouldn't wait."

"We've waited twelve years... what's a few months more. We could be married in Paris... Darius could..." Tessa's voice faded away and tears sparkled in her eyes. She reached out for the somber and withdrawing Scot.

"He's alive. Dawson told me that after I took care of Horton a few weeks ago... that Horton had insisted that he'd never killed Darius... that he wasn't at the church."

"What does your heart tell you?" asked Tessa.

"Until I see the body... I have to believe he's alive... but where?"

"Then perhaps by next spring... he will be in Paris again. We can marry then."

Duncan shook his head. "No. This weekend... you... me... Richie... and I guess we'll have to find another witness... Las Vegas."

Tessa laughed and threw up one hand. "Very well! But you do realize I can't wear a ring. Jewelry is dangerous and gets in the way when I sculpt or weld."

Duncan smiled and held up a small blue box with a silver bow. "I remember." He handed it to her.

"Ooh... an early wedding present." Tessa opened the box and lifted out a gold chain. She looked at Duncan curiously.

"You can put the ring on the chain and wear it under your clothes."

"It's beautiful. Thank you!" Tessa leaned close for another kiss. "Now get out of here. I need to dress and get some sculpting done today and you are far too great a distraction."

Duncan saluted. "Yes ma'am."

"I shall have you properly trained as a househusband before too long," called Tessa as he gathered the breakfast tray and left their bedroom.

Whistling he left the tray in the kitchen as he headed for the storefront. Their grand re-opening had been yesterday... and business had been fair. But the business was, as always, a front for Duncan's identity... and gave a reason for his carrying a sword on airplanes or about town. He always had papers on him to explain the _katana's_ providence... fake as they were... but they usually worked on local authorities.

Richie was at Duncan's desk... his feet propped on the desk... as he talked on the phone. "You will... great. This will be so cool Angie."

Duncan shoved Richie's feet off the desk and perched on the edge of it. "Angie?" he asked as Richie hung up.

"Yeah. I asked her to go to Vegas with us this weekend. She can be the other witness if Tessa likes... and then she and I can hang out while you two do the honeymoon thing."

Duncan raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Hang out?"

"Yeah... the casinos... the nightclubs... the..." Richie's face reddened. "Okay. I'm hoping to score. Don't say no, Mac... please!"

Duncan nodded. "Okay... Angie's in. Listen, Tessa's gonna work in the studio. If you can cover the store... I'm gonna head down to DeSalvo's gym and work out."

"I still can't believe you bought that place."

Duncan sighed. "Things may only get worse in the next year or so, Rich. I need a place to really work out... someplace small and out of the way. Not one of the big places. DeSalvo's was going under. If by buying it, I can keep it open and operating... I'll have a place to work out... and a key to get in... at any time of day or night. Besides... Charlie's a nice guy."

"He's one of you guys?"

Duncan shook his head. "No... he's mortal. But he's well trained. I need someone to spar against."

"Yeah... but Mac... you can wipe up the floor with that guy. He's nowhere in your league."

"No... but he's the best I've found in the area and he'll have to do. So? Watch the place?"

"Sure, Mac... You can count on me!"

"If there's a question about anything..."

"Yeah... yeah... Tessa's in the studio." Richie waved as Duncan found his gym bag and left. He tossed it into the rear of the T-Bird and climbed in. DeSalvo's wasn't far... and soon he might start running again and making that part of the routine. His fights against the other immortals last year had plainly shown him he needed to be more ready than he was.

If he'd thought that by going to Paris last winter after defeating Grayson that he'd leave the Gathering behind... he'd been mistaken. It was everywhere now. Immortals would be drawn to the same places... and challenges would be ever more frequent. If he was to protect Tessa and Richie... he needed to be ready.

He parked at the back of DeSalvo's and was pleased to see that a number of patrons were already there. He'd kept Charlie on to manage the place... after all... Duncan had his own business to run and soon... he hoped to be spending even more time with Tessa.

"Well... Well... Well! The big man himself." Charlie's voice was pitched just loud enough so that the men working out could hear.

"Good morning, Charlie." Duncan tossed his bag to one side and began stretching and limbering up.

"You know MacLeod... it's not that I'm not grateful for the chance to keep this place open... but there's a stack of repair bills in on the desk in my... excuse me... _your_... office that need to be paid."

"It's still your office, Charlie. And I put some funds into the gym account to cover the bills. If it's not enough... just say so."

"I say so."

"You wouldn't be trying to rip me off now... would you Charlie?"

"Naw man... But that new water heater was more than I thought it would be. I had to get a bigger one than I had before. The plumber said the strain on the old one..."

"Fine, Charlie... I'll check through the bills and invoices and see what I can do." Duncan sighed. He'd hoped just to work out this morning. Evidently fate had other plans. He was just crossing to the office when he saw Dawson appear at the main entrance to the gym.

_He looks so young!_ thought Duncan. Then he shook his head, wondering why he thought that. The Watcher looked anything but young. In his mid to late forties, he was stout, but muscular, with dark hair just beginning to show gray. Duncan hadn't seen the Watcher since he'd rescued Tessa from the rogue Watcher, but he'd spoken to Dawson on the phone the following day... barking at the man to keep his people away from him and his. Dawson had said he'd look into what had happened and get back to him. Evidently this... was getting back to him.

Duncan waved him into the office and shut the door, noticing Charlie's snort of exasperation. "Have a seat, Dawson... or is this a social call."

"I just needed to touch bases with you."

Duncan slid into the desk chair and opened the folder of bills Charlie had lying there. "I told you on the phone. I want you and your people to leave us alone or there will be serious repercussions."

"I've pulled the surveillance team off of you. I'm your Watcher. Me... and me alone. I got some grief over it... but right now I'm the boss in this area... so no one is actively challenging my decision. Listen MacLeod... we're dealing with the Watchers that Horton evidently subverted. We are drumming them out... but... it will take time. Ones like Pallin Wolf are _not_ what we are about."

"Why don't I believe you."

"We have coexisted with immortals for thousands of years. We watch and record your lives. We don't interfere. Hell... I shouldn't even talk to you... but you know about us now... and our destinies are intertwined. For good or ill... we have a partnership."

"I don't take partners. I work alone. Now if that's all?"

Dawson slumped over his cane and then pulled a newspaper from under his arm and tossed it on the desk. "I thought you should see this."

Duncan turned the paper so that he could read the headline over the picture of bodies in a dark car. **_British Ambassador Slain_** it read. "What has this to do with me?"

"Annie Devlin."

Duncan sat back recalling the fiery red-haired Irishwoman he'd known shortly after World War I. After her mortal husband had been killed, she'd seemed to turn into one of the furies of ancient Greek mythology, focused on one thing... getting the Brits out of Ireland. "I haven't seen her in over seventy years," Duncan said and tossed the paper back to Dawson.

Fumbling with it, Dawson glared at him. "Yeah... well she's in town. The Watcher on her said she's responsible for this!" Dawson tossed the paper back at MacLeod. This time... other sections flew free of it as it landed on the desk.

"And what do you want me to do? You show up here every time some immortal does something in this area you don't like and expect me to deal with it. Dawson... I'm not a vigilante. I'm not your personal hit man. If you know anything about me... it's that I don't go looking for a fight."

"I know that. I also know these people had families. Read the article. Her decision to wipe out that car full of people will have some long-reaching side effects. Can you in all conscience let her go unpunished for this?"

Duncan picked up the paper and stared at the photo and then the photos below of the people who had died. He had a strange feeling that they were dead because of something he had done. He shook his head. _That couldn't be true... could it_?

Dawson leaned onto the desk and wrote an address on a slip of paper. "Her Watcher says she and her men are hold up here."

"Why not call the police?"

"And tell them what? That we saw the whole thing and she's there? MacLeod... you know what will happen."

"She'll kill herself and rise again to continue her vendetta."

"Precisely. Immortals can't be dealt with by mortal authorities. A temporary suicide is all too easy for them." He replaced the cap on his fountain pen and stuck it back in his tweed sports jacket. "Do what you want. I just wanted you to know."

Dawson turned and limped slowly out of the office. As he watched him go... Duncan picked up the address and stared at it. Against his better judgment... he thought he just might have to pay a call on an old friend.


	5. 5 An Eye for an Eye, part 2

**5**

_**An Eye for an Eye, part 2**_

The wind over the sound created whitecaps on the waves. Seagulls hovered in the sky... their cry piercing him to his very soul.

Although he'd never stood here before... Duncan MacLeod felt an eerie sense of _deja vu_. Perhaps it was just standing by the ocean that caused it. He looked down at his empty hands and clenched and then released them. He had the oddest sense he should have had something in them.

Slowly he felt her approach and turned to regard the petite red-haired Annie Devlin cautiously descending the flight of outdoor steps from the lighthouse where she and her men had been hiding. Her basket-hilted rapier was in her hand.

"Is this anyway to greet an old friend?" she asked... the Irish lilt teasing across her voice.

"Are we?"

"Are we what?" She paused three steps from the wooden dock and smiled at him.

"Old friends?"

Annie glanced down at her rapier. "I didn't know who was here. I wanted to be ready." She lowered it. "I sent me boys away... Though they were reluctant to go."

"Good. We need to talk."

"Ya always were the talker, MacLeod."

"Annie... this has to stop!" Duncan threw his hands wide.

"What has to stop? The killin'? But they started it. Ya remember that!" she spit.

"I remember the day as well as you, Annie. I know they killed Kerry. But he's been done for over seventy years. Isn't it time to let him rest in peace?"

"They robbed me of my chance for happiness. They killed him and they raped my land even as they raped yours? Have ya forgotten Culloden?"

Duncan's face darkened. "I've forgotten nothing. But the past is the past. We are immortals. Our battles are not theirs. Leave the war to the mortals who need it fought."

Annie laughed as she descended the last few steps. "Ya act as though we should never involve ourselves in mortal activities. Wasn't it _you_ who killed the English after Culloden and haunted the nightmares of their children for a generation? What am I doing that ya haven't?"

"I stopped."

"So? I haven't! Scotland and England might have made their peace and become one country... but Ireland will always be Ireland. And I intend to see that it is independent of the bloody Brits!"

"They are working on it! Even now they talk to work a peace."

Annie circled about him still laughing. "Peace? And the bloody Orangemen still marching through Irish neighborhoods because they willna be told they can't? While one Brit is in power in Ireland... there will be no peace!"

Duncan regarded her sadly. "Have you never found love again, Annie? Have you never let yourself feel again?"

"I love! I have a new husband... Tommy. And he's as fine a fighter for the cause as any man I've ever known. I even gave him Kerry's ring."

"And how long will he live in this war you feel you must continue?"

"Mortals die, MacLeod. Every day they die... while we go on. It's the livin' while we're here that's important. And Tommy and I are livin'! Oh... if it's a fight you want... I'll give you one. I've taken my share over the years, though I know I'm not in your league. I never was. But I won't be some helpless clinging female who needs a man to do her fighting. I'll meet yar blade with mine and fight for my life." She raised the rapier before her... her other hand raised behind her head for balance and slightly bent her knees.

"I didn't come to fight you, Annie. I didn't come for your head," Duncan said stepping back and pulling his _katana_ from his coat. Swiftly he whipped it back and forth.

"Then leave," Annie said. "We're out of here tomorrow. If it's yar city ya want back... It's yars. Me and mine will be gone and trouble ya no more."

"Why not leave tonight?"

Annie's eyes widened momentarily. "Our tickets are already bought. Give me a day to leave MacLeod. I promise we'll leave."

Duncan took a deep cleansing breath. Finally he nodded as each of them lowered their blades. _Challenge and fight averted_, he thought. "I'll keep you to that promise. If you're still here after tomorrow... one of us will die."

"We'll be gone." She turned to climb the stairs.

"And Annie," Duncan called after her. "Please... no more killing. Find another way to get what you want."

Annie paused and looked sadly back at him. "But there is no other way."

She left then and Duncan stared once more at the ocean, wondering why he still felt so uneasy. "Tomorrow," he whispered. Tomorrow he'd be in Las Vegas with Tessa and Richie. He closed his eyes, but still something tickled at the edge of his mind. There was something else about tomorrow.

* * *

"We can't really close the shop since we just re-opened," Tessa said over dinner... a spinach salad with raspberry vinaigrette. "Any ideas who can watch tomorrow and Saturday?"

Duncan stirred the spinach on his plate.

"Mac? Hello? Earth to Mac," Tessa teased. She set her fork down and reached for his hand. "What is it?"

"I'm not certain. I just have this feeling that I'm forgetting something."

"Let's see. We have the license, the rings, my lovely chain, Richie, Angie for the second witness... and I have a new white _teddie_ for tomorrow night." She smiled and winked. "What else could there be?"

Duncan shook his head. "I don't know."

Tessa smiled. "I'm certain it's nothing." Later she shooed him out of the kitchen.

Settling behind the office desk, Duncan began going through accounts when his eyes fell on the newspaper he'd brought back from the _doj_o earlier. Thoughtfully he picked it up and began reading the article again... noting that there were accompanying articles inside the section. Almost fearfully he opened the paper and began to read. Then his eyes closed in despair.

Tomorrow afternoon a conference involving British authorities, representatives of the Irish peace movement and a congressional delegate of the United States were scheduled to meet at an unprecedented conference dedicated to finding peace in the wake of the latest killings.

Duncan set the paper down. "She's going to attack," murmured Duncan. "That's why she'll leave tomorrow. Dead or alive... she and her people will be gone." He could see it now. They'd attack with guns... or a bomb. Dozens of people would be hurt... and peace would be deferred for another decade.

Duncan MacLeod realized that if he left to pursue his own life... mortals would die. He closed his eyes and shuddered. All he truly wanted was a chance for a life with Tessa... but fate, it seemed, had other plans. For some reason he seemed to see a small rubber ball bouncing on a white surface.


	6. 6 An Eye for An Eye, part 3

**6**

_**An Eye for an Eye, part 3**_

Outside the grounds of the late nineteenth century manor house, built by an oil tycoon for his bride during the boom times of the 1890's, Duncan sat warily in his T-Bird. The house was set on twenty acres of wooded and rolling terrain, surrounded by a high brick wall and an immense iron gate. Guards with dogs patrolled the grounds, and more armed guards covered the gate.

Duncan was also certain that the house itself held an armed presence... mindful of the dangers, they would be on alert to any unauthorized presence.

Yet the Highlander felt that somehow... Annie and her people had already found a way in. whether it was part of the housekeeping staff, or the caterers... they'd be in there... and more would die.

"Now I have to find a legitimate way in," he mused as he recalled the look on Tessa's face when he'd postponed the wedding.

"What?" she'd said. "You rush me into a wedding this weekend and now you're backing out?"

"I'm not backing out," he'd assured her. "And with luck... we can still make it tomorrow. We'll just get married a day late and come back on Sunday."

"What's so important?"

Duncan had taken a deep breath and then tried to explain about Annie Devlin. "She was once an old friend, Tessa. I need to try and save her from herself... from what's she's become."

"Mac... the entire world is not your responsibility. You can't protect everyone."

"I know that."

"Do you? Listen. Last winter... when you stayed behind here to meet Grayson and shipped me off to Paris... I had several long talks with Darius."

Duncan had stared at her at that point, wondering what Darius had said to her.

"He told me that honor and loyalty to your friends runs very strongly in you. That was why he befriended you all those years ago. He said he could see in you the seeds of greatness... that maybe you could find a way to end the game. As he watched you over the years, he noted how easily you made friends among other immortals. Rather than kill and take their heads... as most did... you wanted immortal companionship above all else. He admired that in you."

Duncan had chuckled.

"And then Darius told me something else." Tessa had paused at that point as she softly ran a hand along the line of his jaw. "He said that you tended to carry the sins of the world on your back. That you felt responsible for all immortals... and the way they interacted with mortals. That one day... you would have to learn... that you cannot save them all... nor be responsible for their actions."

Duncan had merely stared at her. Darius' words seemed to echo deep within him.

"You were taught to be the leader of your clan, Duncan. To you... all immortals are your clan. But some of them... even though they be your friends... cannot be saved." Then she'd kissed him. "Now... go do what you must... and hurry home."

So here he was... outside the VandeMeer Estate... with no clear idea as to how to get in. He glanced up as several media vans began to park in the field across the road from the main gate. Watching as they deployed their satellites atop the vans and set up for live feeds he noted a familiar face and smiled.

"Randi McFarland," he whispered to himself. "Now there's a thought." He hadn't seen the intrepid reporter since he'd left last winter after killing Grayson. Randi was a real pain... and she asked uncomfortable questions sometimes... but she thought he was some sort of secret agent. Maybe... just maybe... he could use that and her to his advantage. Quickly he formulated a plan... not a great plan... but one that might at least get him onto the grounds... and climbed out of the T-Bird to approach her.

"Okay," Randi was saying to her cameraman and her sound technician. "How does this look and how clear is the sound. Testing... one... two... three... testing."

Duncan folded his hands before him while a gentle breeze lifted the tale of his coat so that it whipped about his legs. He raised his eyebrows as he grinned sheepishly at Randi.

"Well look who it is!" Randi smirked as she lowered her microphone. "Duncan MacLeod! And here I thought you didn't care. You don't phone... you don't write."

"Hello, Randi. Can we talk?"

"Ooh... Is it scoop time, MacLeod?" She handed the microphone to the soundman and slipped an arm into Duncan's as they walked off to one side. Behind her the cameraman and the soundman snickered.

Duncan couldn't help but chuckle. "Perhaps," he replied. Once they were out of earshot he faced her and with a low voice asked for help in getting in when the reporters were admitted to cover the opening of the conference.

"Wait a minute, MacLeod," Randi's voice was accusatory. "You think that terrorists _may_ be setting their sights on this conference... but you have no proof? Why not use your government contacts?"

"As I've told you... I'm not government... officially. I work well beneath the radar of official channels. I just need for you to get me in so I can take a look around."

"Why shouldn't I break the story now?"

Duncan clasped her arm firmly as he looked warily around. "That will only let them know I may be on to them. Then... they'll be that much harder to stop. Work with me on this Randi... and you just might get that scoop you've been wanting."

Greed glistened in Randi's blue eyes at his words. "Truth, MacLeod? You wouldn't be stringing me along like you have before?"

Duncan smiled with a wink. "Would I do that?"

"You bet your ass, you would. But MacLeod... run out on me this time... and I swear to God I'll haunt your every step until I get that scoop."

"I'll keep that in mind. So... shall we?"

Randi stalked back to the van, murmuring angrily under her breath. "Let's see if I can explain this to my crew so that it makes sense."

Half an hour later... when the reporters were ushered inside the gate for a press conference on the lawn beneath the wide verandah... Randi and her cameraman... and her soundman... who managed to slip out of sight... entered.

Duncan wore the official logo black satin jacket of the station, and a black logo ballcap pulled low over his eyes. Once inside the gate... he handed the sound equipment off to the cameraman and cautiously made his way into the mansion. He slipped inside and, while most apparently had their eyes on the delegates as they were paraded out to the verandah... he moved silently and swiftly through the dim corridors. So far... he felt nothing. _Could he have been wrong? Were they outside... even now drawing a bead on the delegates?_

Then he felt her... Annie Devlin's immortal presence buzzed in his head. Stuffing the ballcap into his jacket pocket... Duncan slipped off the jacket and tossed it into a closet. Duncan didn't want to create problems for Randi if he was caught. He hadn't been able to bring his _katana_ in through the metal-detector... but he didn't think Annie had have been able to bring her sword in either. At least he hoped not. Likely she and the others had thought they'd seem perfectly normal to be here. They'd likely taken the place of day workers. But if he felt her... then Annie undoubtedly felt him.

Following the sense of her... Duncan arrived at the kitchen where he saw cooks preparing food while staff was preparing to serve it at the luncheon that would follow the news conference. He narrowed his gaze and looked around as several people looked at him curiously but went on with their jobs... likely assuming he was security of some sort. Which he was... sort of.

Duncan didn't know what Annie's boys looked like... or if any of them were here... but she was. Now all he had to do was find her. If he could get her out of here... he might prevent whatever it was she had planned. He passed among the employees, watching the eyes and movements of all he saw. Annie was likely in disguise. So he ignored hair... and concentrated on his sense of her presence. Almost like a living Geiger counter he kept turning as he passed among the moving and shifting workers just doing their jobs. When the rising sense of her began to fade again... Duncan changed directions.

He reached out with his hands to grab a gray-haired woman. His eyes widened. _Annie!_ Hurriedly he tried to usher her efficiently from the kitchen. A young blonde man with long hair tied back in a ponytail slammed a tray of canapés into Duncan's stomach. He released Annie as he doubled over. Then a fist connected solidly with his jaw. He shook his head free of the stars exploding before his eyes and attempted to follow the retreating couple. Two other men grabbed him, one on each arm.

Drawing on his centuries of experience as he heard someone calling for the security, he collapsed slightly and then pulled the two men's s heads together with a mighty crash. They'd been totally unprepared. Letting them fall, he shouted to a nearby worker, "Have security hold them. There's a terrorist group in the building!" Hoping that the authority in his voice would allow him to escape to follow Annie and her friend... Duncan threaded his way through... yelling for the others to get out of his way. It worked. Even as he vanished into the service corridor... he saw some of the kitchen staff descend on the two men and security arrive. Duncan prayed that no one could give a good description of him.

He followed his feel of Annie down the corridor and up the service stairs to the bedrooms. The service corridor ran the length of the building... allowing the servants to move between the rooms without impinging on the residents. Once it had been the VandeMeer family. Now... it was usually political guests.

Duncan rushed down the corridor... skidding to a stop as he felt her in one of the bedrooms. He tried the door. Locked! Swiftly he thrust his shoulder into the door and crashed against it.

Wood splintered as the door finally gave way. Duncan entered the room, his eyes on alert.

Annie was near the window staring at him with hate in her eyes.

A movement to his right caused him to react without thinking. He kicked out with his right foot suddenly... connecting solidly with the man's throat. The man's head snapped back. Duncan grabbed him by the arm and the neck... hearing the snapping of bones as he turned the man's head.

"Tommy!" shouted Annie.

Duncan met her horrified gaze... which, even as he watched, turned to hate. Her eyes glittered darkly and her nostrils flared. Turning she threw herself through the second story window.

As Duncan watched helplessly... her body arced into the air and then landed with a crash onto the verandah. Her flight was caught by several media cameras as she plummeted onto the balustrade... her back broken... blood running from her ears.

Duncan stepped back from the window as several cameras swung upward in his direction. Just then security entered. He raised his hands and knelt when told to do so... meekly surrendering to the handcuffs and the shouts.

_Guess I might not make my wedding tomorrow, after all!_ he thought. Then he worried how long he'd be incarcerated... and how long it might take Annie to revive and come for him... or for those he loved.


	7. 7 An Eye for An Eye, part 4

**7**

_**An Eye for an Eye, part 4**_

Angie stormed out of **_MacLeod and Noel Antiques_**. She was furious as she tossed her bag into her open SUV and momentarily stopped to stomp her feet. She'd gone to all the trouble to request time off from her job, arranged for someone to watch her cat, and now... Richie tells her the trip is off? Or at least postponed? "Sometimes I hate men!" she wanted to scream.

A hand went about her mouth as a sharp knife was pressed into her side. Angie's eyes widened fearfully. She relaxed a bit and pulled in and then lifted one foot to stomp on the small booted foot she can see as she rammed one elbow into her assailant's mid-section. Hearing an "_oof_", Angie took advantage of the momentary loss of grip on her and turned to pull back one fist... aiming for her assailant's face. Seeing a female face... she hesitated.

Just then Richie stepped out of the shop. "Angie... c'mon... I'm sorry it..." His voice trailed off as he took in Angie and her attacker. He rushed forward and placed himself between Angie and the attacking woman. Noticing the blade... he swallowed and wondered if this were an immortal.

The woman drew back... Her eyes widened as she stared at him and then at Angie.

"Tell MacLeod I'll be waitin' for him. He knows where." She sniffed diffidently at Angie as she rubbed a hand across her midriff. "Evidently MacLeod's been teachin' ya. Tell him... an eye for an eye. He killed my Tommy," She pointed at Angie. "And I'll kill you. " The woman turned and vanished into the darkness.

Richie let out a long breath and then tried to hold Angie who pushed him off angrily. "Who the hell was that witch? And why was she after me? I barely know MacLeod!"

Richie shook his head. "Get back in the store, Angie. We gotta call Mac and I don't think you should leave."

Angie angrily thrust his arms away. "I know how to take care of myself! She just surprised me."

"Angie... please. She'll kill you."

"Why?"

Richie glanced back at the store. "Maybe she thought you were Tessa." He grabbed her arm again and pulled her along as she protested. Once inside the store... he locked the door and yelled for Tessa.

Duncan sat uneasily in the small office at the VandeMeer Estate. He'd been here all afternoon... answering questions without really answering questions.

"I checked with the local PD... MacLeod. You have a history of turning up at crime scenes. Do you have an explanation?"

"Just lucky I guess."

The agent slapped his hands on the desk. "Don't get cute. Now... how did you get onto the grounds?"

"I slipped in when no one was looking," he said simply, hoping to keep Randi's name out of this.

"When?"

Duncan hesitated and then smiled. Half-truths were likely best. "While all eyes were on the delegates."

The agent threw up his hands and paced while his partner chewed on a toothpick... leaning on one raised leg ... his foot resting in a chair.

The door to the small office opened and an efficient-looking woman entered and crooked a finger at the first agent. Duncan couldn't hear what she said... but it couldn't have been good. The ancient snarled a bit under his breath and turned to face MacLeod.

"How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That terrorists were planning to kill the delegates."

Duncan shrugged. "I overheard something and thought I'd check it out."

"Well you were right. We found a highly effective poison in the salt shakers. If you hadn't interfered... the entire delegation may have died at the luncheon. Again I ask... how did you know?"

"I didn't... precisely. I just overheard something and became curious." He met the agent's gaze calmly. _Half-truths_, he thought. "If I'm no longer under suspicion... am I free to go?"

The agent straightened and nodded reluctantly. "However... Mr. MacLeod... we'll be watching you, as will the local authorities. You might have additional questions to answer later. After all... we have two dead terrorists and two in the prison ward of County General. They confirm they were part of the Annie Devlin Movement. Christ... terrorists have been using that name for at least fifty years."

"More like seventy," MacLeod said softly as he rose. "My things?" The second agent tossed him his ID and mobile phone, which Duncan noted was blinking with a missed call.

"Next time you overhear something, Mr. MacLeod, contact the authorities. Don't take matters into your own hands," the first agent said as Duncan was leaving.

He hesitated at the door and turned. "Would you or anyone have believed me? I felt time was of the essence. Apparently... I was right." He nodded and left... escorted roughly by two other agents through the house and out onto the grounds. They opened the gate for him to slip through.

Across the road he could still see the media vans. As the reporters and cameras surged forward, he covered his face and headed for his car. Just as he was driving off... Randi McFarland popped up from the back seat.

"I figured you'd try to give me the slip, MacLeod. Now about that scoop... how did you know?"

MacLeod sighed. "I overheard something being said at a bar." It was the same story he'd essentially told the authorities about fifty times today. "I recognized the name Annie Devlin as one I'd heard in connection with terrorist activities and decided to check it out."

"C'mon MacLeod," Randi said leaning over the front set. "That's the official story. How did you really know?"

MacLeod glanced down at the blinking light on his mobile. He needed to check that. If he was right... Annie was likely already up and on the move. "I'd had dealings with her once before," he finally admitted and pulled to the side of the road. "Out."

"Not a chance MacLeod. Where you go... I go."

Duncan growled and clicked on his mobile to hear the message. It was Tessa. Hurriedly he punched in their residential number. In less than one ring it was picked up.

"Mac?"

"Yeah... it's me. I was delayed."

"She was here, Mac. She went after Angie."

"Is she all right?"

"She thought Angie was me. Richie interrupted her. Angie's quite the fighter. I think she surprised her."

Duncan sighed but said nothing... not with Randi hanging over him, trying to hear his conversation.

"She said she was waiting for you. That you'd know where." Tessa sounded concerned. He wanted to re-assure her. Annie was not a threat to him... she was a threat to Tessa... and if she'd met Richie... she'd be a threat to him. Duncan silently thanked the fates that Angie's street-fighting skills had likely surprised Annie enough to save the young woman's life... and possibly Richie's head.

"Lock the doors. I'll be home as soon as I can."

"I love you."

Duncan smiled. "I love you, too." He shut the phone off. "If I ask you to get out... would you?"

"No."

Duncan smiled grimly as he accelerated down the road. "Are you certain about that?"

"Absolutely," Randi insisted.

Duncan slammed on the brakes. Randi went flying over the front seat. He caught her before she could hit the windshield and cold-cocked her. He didn't want her hurt... but he had to be free to do what he knew now needed to be done. He climbed out of the car and carried Randi to the trunk, tossing her inside. "I'm really sorry about this," he mumbled as he slammed the lid.

He climbed in and drove furiously toward the lighthouse.

Annie was waiting for him on the dock. He'd parked the T-Bird down the road and prayed that Randi would not hear or have any clue about the quickening.

"You murderin' bastard!" Annie snarled. "He was my husband!"

"You put him in danger, Annie. His death is on your conscience."

"We do this now, MacLeod. I'd hope to kill your woman to make things even."

"Killing never evens anything, Annie. That's what I've been trying to tell you. Killing only escalates the problem. At some point... you have to say 'Hold... enough!' and stop. You can stop, Annie. Walk away. Mourn Tommy along with Kerry and walk away. We don't have to do this."

"For the cause!" shouted the fiery redhead as she lunged.

Duncan easily blocked her stroke and then moved to his right... holding the _katana_ in both hands before him.

Annie slashed back and forth.

Duncan let her expend energy and strength... fueled as she was by emotion. Long ago he'd learned that in the challenge... he couldn't afford emotion. He had to become a machine... divorcing himself from anger... pain... despair. He had to anticipate and wait.

Continually, the Highlander backed up and to the right... blocking each of his opponent's slices until she stopped, exhausted. He pulled back as she bent over, breathing heavily.

Annie swung at him again... this time so close was she that he trapped her blade and pulled her in. "Let it out, Annie... Let it all out."

"Noooo!" she screamed and struggled free. Again she attacked and again he blocked her stroke... this time he turned the _katana_ about so that he caught her rapier in a disarm movement. The rapier arced into the night. Duncan heard it splash into the water.

Annie fell to her knees sobbing.

Duncan placed the _katana_ under her chin and forced her to look up at him.

"Finish it!" she cried.

Duncan shook his head. "I'm your friend, Annie," he said sadly.

"I have no friends!" she screamed. "Do it! It's the way we live. It's the way we die!" She closed her eyes as Duncan pulled the _katana_ back and raised it over his head.

"I'm so sorry, Annie. So very sorry." The _katana_ flashed in the moonlight as it descended. Duncan MacLeod spread his arms and accepted what was to come. The quickening lit up the night sky and crashed about him. In his mind he saw again the loving young woman twisted by hate and loss to become the killer and the nightmare. As the sparks faded away... Duncan fell to his knees... sobbing.

Duncan glanced up the next morning as he was loading the T-Bird for their trip to Vegas. Randi McFarland stood staring at him with a bemused expression.

"Cute, MacLeod. You knock me out... put me in a trunk. Then let me out again. Why? What didn't you want me to see?"

"Maybe I just wanted to show you that wearing seatbelts is important," he said slamming the trunk on the overnight bags.

"Ha! Ha! Very cute. Listen MacLeod. You promised me a story."

"And you got one. Local man follows clue and interferes in an assassination attempt. Case closed." He turned to smile at Tessa... glorious in a white suit, and Richie and Angie... suitably dressed for both a wedding and for their night on the town in Vegas. Both Angie and Tessa wore orchid corsages. Tessa's was pinned on a lapel... Angie's was on her wrist. Richie's sports jacket sported a boutonniere, as did Mac's black suitcoat.

Richie opened doors and with a bow, helped both women in while Duncan finished with Randi.

"We're done here Miss McFarland. We have to go."

"We're not done MacLeod. I promise you that. You owe me MacLeod."

He could still hear her voice as he climbed in and drove off.

"She's not going to stop now... is she," murmured Tessa softly.

"No," Duncan replied quietly. "I don't think so."

"Mr. MacLeod," Angie asked. "What is it with you and strange women? If you want... I can punch out this one, too."

Glancing in the rear view mirror, Duncan chuckled. "I don't think that will be necessary, Angie," Duncan said with a knowing smile as he turned onto the highway... and they headed toward Las Vegas... and a wedding. _This time_, he thought silently. Beside him... Tessa's hand grasped his.


	8. 8 A Farewell to the King, part 1

**Author's Note:**_ And now for an entirely new and different episode set between the canon episodes "An Eye for an Eye" and "The Zone"... think Bruce Campbell as "Elvis". I recently watched **Bubba-Ho-Tep** and what can I say... I was inspired. I hope you enjoy._ --elle

**8**

_**A Farewell to the King, part 1**_

The wedding thankfully had gone without a hitch. They'd found one of those late-night chapels, signed the paperwork... said their vows... had a late champagne supper... and then Duncan and Tessa had retired to the honeymoon suite... while Richie and Angie had decided to spend the remainder of the evening... gambling.

Duncan had given Richie a handful of chips. "Don't lose it all in one bet," he'd whispered to Richie and winked.

"Right. Thanks big guy. Uh... see you guys in the morning." Richie blushed slightly and grinned at Tessa. "Have fun!" he added as he took Angie's arm and headed for the casino.

Angie shook his arm off. "Friends... remember."

"Hey... I'm just trying to be a gentleman."

Angie snorted. "Right! And if I believe that... you have some swamp land in south Florida to sell me." She winked and laughed at Richie's discomfort. "Listen... Rich... Just relax. Let's have a good time and just see what happens. Okay?"

Richie fingered the tokens and smiled. "So... what do you think is our game? Blackjack? Roulette?"

Angie shook her head. "Neither. I'm for the one-armed bandits."

Richie sighed. "Quarters... I'll need quarters."

Once he'd cashed in a chip for quarters and they'd arrived at the slot machines... Richie had to admit that this place was amazing. Crowds of people moved through the casino, laughing, drinking, betting, and smoking. It was all so surreal. The young man had never seen so many people in such a hurry to lose money.

Angie was carefully eyeing the machines and the gamblers. "My uncle says there's a system to this. These things are set to pay off at a regular rate. You have to know which one to use... when." She watched as an elderly woman threw up her hands mumbling that she was out. She rose stiffly from the chair and wandered off. Angie swiftly settled into the vacant seat.

"Why this one?" Richie asked as he leaned over her back and watched her feed quarters into the machine.

"She'd been here a while without a pay-off." Again and again Angie fed quarters into the machine and pulled the lever. Again and again... the dials whirled and she'd get two... but not three to match up.

Richie eyed the shrinking stack of quarters. "Shall I get some more?"

But Angie was focused on the slots.

Richie straightened to head back to the exchange for more quarters when he ran smack into... Elvis. Or more precisely... an Elvis impersonator complete with white sequined jumpsuit.

"Oh sorry man. Hey... Nice threads," the young man said as he walked off.

The Elvis turned... watching Richie thread his way through the crowds. He lifted his sunglasses and smiled as his gaze followed the young man. "Now isn't that interesting," he said as he lowered the glasses.

The Elvis headed for the nearest bar and motioned to the bartender for a drink. As he waited... he watched Richie return to the slots and hand Angie more quarters.

The Elvis grinned as he sipped his drink. "Thank you... thank you very much," he said to the bartender who rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"You know Vrej... management frowns on you having too many of those."

"First one tonight," Vrej said as he lifted his drink in a mock toast. He smiled and then once more focused his attention on the young couple.

As their second stack of quarters dwindled, he finished his drink and approached them.

"Sorry, Richie," the young woman was saying. "I guess I picked the wrong one. Do you want to get me another stack or do something else?"

Richie seemed to grin. "Something else, Angie?"

She slapped his arm. "I meant here in the casino."

Vrej grinned. "Allow me." He pulled a shiny new quarter from his jumpsuit pocket and bowed as he handed it to the young woman. "Compliments of the house for a lovely lady."

Angie blushed. "Thanks!" She fed the quarter in and pulled the lever. The dials spun and then clicked to a stop one by one... matching up with a huge payoff. Something clicked inside the machine and a torrent of quarters was suddenly released as a bell went off on the machine.

Vrej stepped back and headed toward the small theatre to the right of the main casino. He had a show to do.

Richie and Angie scrambled to collect the quarters as they bounced about over the carpeted floor. Two security men approached and held the crowd back so that the couple could collect their winnings.

Richie looked around. "Where did that guy go?"

"Who cares!" shouted Angie with glee. "Man oh man... I'll be able to pay off some bills with this bonanza!"

"Less what I put in," Richie reminded her.

Angie grabbed his neck and kissed him... forcing her tongue into his mouth for a teasing pass. She pulled back with a grin as she arched her eyebrows. "I'll be certain to repay you later. Let's get this payoff to the window to turn in for something a little easier to carry."

Richie felt his hormones raging and his body reacting to Angie's kiss and suggestion. Nevertheless, he followed suit and helped collect the coins. A security man gave him a sack for the quarters. Once all were in the bag, he strained a bit as he carried it to the window.

Once the money was counted up... he learned they'd had a five thousand dollar pay-off. He signed the receipt and accepted the check.

"Now in the Starlight room... Elvis Presley!" came a voice over the sound system as they finished up at the exchange.

"C'mon," said Angie. "I need to see if it's the same guy. If it is... I want to thank him." She pulled Richie behind her as she headed for the Starlight Room.

Inside... the spotlight was on the jumpsuited Elvis gyrating on the stage and singing "_Don't Be Cruel_". Richie had to admit the guy was good... really good. In fact... if he didn't know better, that the real Elvis was dead... he'd swear this guy was the real thing.

Then he grinned. Maybe he was. After all, if Elvis had been an immortal... he'd have had to stage a death. What better way to continue... than as an impersonator? Richie laughed to himself at the thought.

The number ended just as Richie and Angie found a table and a seat. The crowd applauded enthusiastically.

"Thank you... thank you very much," the Elvis said. Soft strains of music sounded from his band as he lifted the microphone... "And now... for a change of pace..." and then launched into "_Love Me Tender_."

Angie sighed. "I love Elvis... always have."

Richie shrugged. The King had been cool... especially the slim, black-leather Elvis he'd seen pictures of... the one from the sixties. But while he knew the guy had been great... Richie had never quite understood what it was about the singer that had made so many women swoon over him and throw themselves at him. Still... Richie grinned... this Elvis had certainly gotten Angie into the right frame of mind. Maybe he'd get lucky tonight after all.

The Elvis began to move through the crowd, stopping by their table and pulling off a neck scarf... which he kissed and then handed to Angie with a wink before he moved on.

"I think I'm in love," squealed Angie as she buried her face in the scarf.

Richie rolled his eyes. It was one thing to love the King... but a Las Vegas duplicate?

Sometime later, at the conclusion of the show... most of the crowd threaded out. Richie rose and handed a chip to a waiter as he whispered to him about asking "Elvis" to join them for a drink. The waiter saluted, touching the chip to his forehead with a grin and vanished backstage. Richie sat down again.

A few moments later the Elvis emerged and joined them. "So... my quarter brought you some luck?"

Angie sighed. "Thank you so much. How can I repay you?"

The Elvis grinned. "Not to worry. It was my pleasure." He settled at the table and motioned to the waiter for a round of drinks.

A gushing elderly woman leaned over his shoulder and he signed her program and kissed her cheek. She left a happy woman.

"Must be great here. You know... getting the applause and doing something you love." Richie said offering a hand as he introduced himself and Angie.

"So... besides slots... what brings you to Las Vegas?" the Elvis said as he sat back and sipped the drink that the waiter had brought.

"A wedding," replied Angie and then blushed. "Not ours. We were witnesses for some friends." Her eyes were definitely on the Elvis.

"Lots of weddings go on here," the Elvis said with a wink. "Especially after big pay-offs."

It was Richie's turn to blush. "Yeah... well... I can understand that."

Angie kicked him under the table as she continued to focus her attention on the Elvis. "How long have you worked here?" she asked.

"Oh... a few years," the Elvis said.

"What's your real name?" Richie asked, hoping to break the mesmerizing spell this guy seemed to be weaving over Angie.

The Elvis grinned and winked. "Elvis Presley," he replied.

"Yeah... right," said Richie and slumped back in his chair watching the Elvis and Angie laugh and talk shop. Inwardly, he began to wonder if this guy really was Elvis... and how he could find out. He glanced upward and wondered how mad Mac would be if he knocked on the door of the honeymoon suite and asked him to come identify a possible immortal.


	9. 9 A Farewell to the King, part 2

**9**

_**A Farewell to the King, part 2**_

It was the light hum of a pre-immortal presence in the hall that awakened Duncan MacLeod. "_Richie?_" he thought as he snuggled next to Tessa. "_What's he doing on this floor?_" Then he felt the full-blown feel of an immortal.

Dropping one hand to the floor beside the bed, Duncan grasped his katana and focused on the sounds in the hall. Laughter. Muffled voices. One was definitely Richie.

Duncan kissed the sleeping Tessa and rose; crossing to the door... aware that if he sensed the other... the other sensed him. Nervously he waited... trying to make out the voices.

"Thanks for the suite, man," Richie was saying. "This'll be so much nicer than the rooms we had."

"The casino usually has rooms set aside for the big winners. Yours wasn't that big and I guess they decided to save it. So... here ya go my young friend. You and your lovely lady can have mine for the night."

Angie snickered. "I'm not his lovely lady."

The strange voice. "But you are a lovely lady. Let me get the door. I'll pack a few things and use your room for the night."

"Thanks again."

"My pleasure."

Duncan cracked the door open and peered through just in time to see Richie and Angie vanish into the other room with... Elvis?

For a moment Duncan was stunned... and then he smiled.

_**Russia 1919**_

"Quickly Katerina," Duncan said. "You and the children must leave Russia entirely." He kissed the young widow briefly as he slipped the immortal Drakov's diamonds into her hand. He winked at her and stepped back.

The young widow hefted the bag in her hand thoughtfully and then nodded, pressing her gloved fingers to her lips in a silent farewell. "I will remember you always, Dimitri," she said. She and the children waved as the carriage drove off.

"And another mortal passes out of my life," thought Duncan sorrowfully. He'd been the young widow's lover for over a year and had thoroughly enjoyed both her... and the children. It was one of the few times in his life that he'd had children around for any length of time... and it had been a new experience.

Duncan glared slightly as he took his leave of Artur Drakov. He might have to deal with him some day, but he'd promised to leave him be for now... in exchange for Katerina's life. She and the children were more important than any game. Perhaps he might rejoin her in Europe soon. More likely, he'd just move on to another life somewhere.

Some fifteen minutes later, as he strolled along the road back to the Abernov estate where he planned to gather his belongings, he felt another presence. "Drakov!" he said between his gritted teeth. Drawing his sword... he prepared to meet his challenger. Evidently Drakov had already discovered the missing diamonds. He'd have to fight him here and now and protect the Abernov's escape.

But it wasn't Drakov.

A dark-haired, dark-bearded man carrying an axe and dragging a load of wood on a sledge behind him stopped in the melting snow and stared at the Highlander.

Duncan eyed him carefully, noting his size and the way the man moved.

The woodcutter also had a _balalaika_ strung across his back. The Russian stringed instrument twanged slightly as the large man dropped the rope harness by which he was hauling the sledge. With a practiced move... the immortal reached back and carefully lay the instrument on the sledge and hefted the axe in his hands as he regarded Duncan.

"Duncan MacLeod," Duncan said.

"Vrej Ratavousian," the immortal said as he held the axe before him with both hands. "Do we have a problem?"

Duncan smiled thinly. "Not unless you want one."

Vrej's face broke into a wide grin. "Then I'd prefer a drink and a story." He shifted his axe back to his shoulder. "We are few and far between. I enjoy meeting others unless they are hunting."

Duncan nodded and lowered his _katana_. "There's one of us in the town. Artur Drakov. I just had the displeasure of his company and thought you were he."

"Oh, him," Vrej rolled his eyes. "That one makes deals with all of us."

Duncan replaced his katana in his coat. "What did he offer you?"

Vrej turned to pick up his instrument and re-settle the rope harness on his shoulder. "Oh... I get to continue to live with my family."

"Are you new to this life?" Duncan asked falling into step beside the bearded Russian.

"No. I'm nearly three hundred and forty."

Duncan smiled. "Then we're about the same age."

Vrej slapped the Highlander on the shoulder. "Then come my brother. Help me deliver the wood and then you and I can hoist a toast and discuss the centuries. My current wife knows all about me. She is a marvel." Vrej winked with a hearty laugh.

Duncan found himself smiling. The loneliness of the centuries often preyed on him and the chance to meet and have a drink and a conversation with another immortal was always welcome... if fraught with danger. He'd learned that with that huntsman Charles Browning in England a few centuries ago. Still... the chance to spend a warm evening with a potential friend drew him along.

"Does she know there are others of us."

Vrej nodded. "She has been with me for twenty years. She knows. But she holds her tongue. After all... I'm a great lover and she would miss me if I had to leave."

Duncan chuckled. "That good?"

Vrej grinned and winked. The sounds of his laughter echoed on the early spring air.

**Las Vegas**

Duncan leaned against the open door... and waited for Vrej to exit the room. When he did so, Duncan smirked. "Elvis?"

Vrej grinned and shifted his overnight bag. Duncan saw the glint of steel hidden beneath the immortal's coat. "Well... why not? He bore a passing resemblance to me... so why shouldn't I make a living by paying homage to his memory. The women I meet are clearly pleased."

He extended a hand. "Duncan MacLeod! Well met old friend."

Duncan took it gingerly. "What are your plans regarding the boy?" He nodded toward the closed door of Vrej's room.

"I thought I'd protect him while he was here. You know I hate to see the young ones die too soon."

"He's with me by the way."

"Really? Well then we are in agreement." Vrej turned and studied the closed door of his room. "I didn't think he should be wandering about the casino all night. I felt someone earlier during one of the shows... and I didn't like the look of him."

"Who was it?"

"Not certain. He had the feel of someone very old... and very dark."

Duncan closed his own door. "I'm on my honeymoon."

Vrej slapped him on the back. "Finally young Duncan! I didn't think you'd ever take the plunge! May you and the missus have long decades of happiness!"

Duncan nodded, and inwardly prayed that it would be so.

"Go to your bride, Duncan. I shall watch over the casino and the young one."

Duncan chuckled. "I'll know if anyone else comes to this floor. You just watch the casino. If you need help, call me. I assume you know the number for this room."

Vrej lifted his sunglasses. "Bridal suite?" He laughed and nodded. "Go love her tender... Duncan, and don't be cruel."

Duncan groaned at the puns, and shook his head. He waved goodnight to Vrej and returned to bed.

"Who was that?" murmured a sleepy Tessa.

"An old friend," Duncan replied and slipped in next to her... running his hands over her softly.

"I see you're awake and ready for more," she teased.

"Always," Duncan replied as he kissed her firmly, delighting in her response.

Vrej hadn't told the Highlander everything. He hadn't mentioned that the immortal he'd felt earlier had seemed to radiate not just darkness... but a hungry and all-consuming evil. Vrej had felt downright cold on the stage when he'd felt the other and had not been able to figure out who he was.

That had been one of the reasons he'd gone into the casino after the first show... to warm up and be around just folks. Sensing the pre-immortal Richie Ryan, he'd decided to keep an eye on the youngster. After all... if this other immortal in the casino _was_ evil... then he'd likely kill and behead the young man without a second thought. On the other hand... perhaps the other was hoping Vrej would make a move and then would take advantage of his after-quickening weakness. Well... Vrej wasn't going to fall for that.

He'd given the young man his room as he expected to be up all night. The feel of an immortal on that floor had thrown him. But MacLeod was a straight arrow. And if, as he said, he was also looking after the young man... who _had_ mentioned coming to Vegas because of a friend's wedding so that seemed to make sense... MacLeod was warned... and could watch the floor while Vrej took another stroll through the casino.

After dropping his bag at Richie's room, Vrej pulled on his Elvis cape and hid his sword within it. This one had a jeweled handle. He'd made it look like a stage prop... but the blade was deadly. It had seen action several times.

Glancing in the mirror... Vrej ran a hand lightly over his hair. He loved this job and this life. Playing Elvis... whose fame and passing resemblance to Vrej was a great cover. The man had possessed a real gift musically... and that had been a bonus. Vrej's own abilities on stringed instruments were more than adequate to pass himself off as a pretender. And the women practically threw themselves at him.

Well... if it could at all be helped... he wanted to deal with this strange old immortal... and continue in this life. He did not wish to lose his meal ticket quite yet.

He stepped out of the room and descended in the elevator to the casino. Time to find the other.


	10. 10 A Farewell to the King, part 3

**10**

_**A Farewell to the King, part 3**_

Even at three a.m., the casino was still filled with gamblers.

Vrej slowly made his way through the crowd, outwardly smiling and acknowledging the grins and handshakes of those he passed. It was his job, after all, to make the patrons of the casino believe they had met Elvis. Inwardly, he was focused on finding that slithering immortal presence that was both here and yet not here.

"He must be able to mask himself, somehow," Vrej muttered under his breath. What he did sense of the other was old and dark, as he'd mentioned to MacLeod. For some reason, Vrej could feel sand gritting in his teeth and the pungent odor of exotic spices wafted on the air. Then just as suddenly... it changed and it was the sickly sweet smell of flowers rotting. He shuddered. Beneath his cape he fingered his jeweled rapier and swallowed nervously. Maybe he should have asked MacLeod to join him down here.

Vrej chuckled at that. Here the Highlander finally marries a woman and his old friend then asks him to leave his bride behind to help with a simple challenge? _No_... Vrej reasoned. _This challenge was to me. And I will face it this time_.

His thoughts floated over the last time he and Duncan MacLeod had spent time together.

_**Tupelo, Mississippi, 1947**_

Vrej Ratavoussian fingered the chords of the guitar and strummed along with the jamming blues musicians. Although spring was in the air, the warmth from the crackling campfire around which they were playing was a welcome comfort.

At times like this... Vrej felt most at home. Oh... true... no one was speaking Russian... well... even he didn't speak it much anymore... and the faces of most of those playing were those dark-skinned faces of the descendants of African slaves... but still... music... a fire... friends... and camaraderie were what it was all about. In all his three hundred and fifty odd years... he'd never felt so at ease.

Even the tingling sense of an approaching immortal didn't alarm him. After all, he was with others... and the power of the blues, he felt, could melt the heart of even the most evil of immortals.

Looking up into the smirking face of Duncan MacLeod made Vrej shake his head as he continued to play. These guys were really good... and the whole idea of this session was to see if he could follow along and learn to improvise when they did so. Old Smoky stomped his foot to the beat to keep them all on time... while Tom Jenkins sang the words... something about lost love, a dog, and only one beer in the house. Vrej laughed to himself. He could relate to that.

The real surprise in this group was the twelve-year old blonde boy with the over-sized guitar trying to fit chords in around the rest of them. His momma had given it to him for his birthday, and while he we was still learning to chord and play... that boy had some real talent, Vrej thought.

Duncan leaned back against a nearby picnic table and watched with a grin as the group of musicians offered their gift of melody to the cool early spring air. When finally Tom's voice reached a particularly high note and held it ... Old Smoky slowed the persistent beat of his foot and all of them followed suit so that the music rose and slowed in a final grand crescendo and then stopped... followed by a moment of grand silence. Then the men laughed and backslapped one another.

The boy grinned. "You guys are great!"

Vrej leaned over to him with a wink. "Thank ya very much. Someday, you'll play the lead and we'll follow you."

The boy's eyes widened. "Ya really think so?" His infectious grin made all of them laugh.

"Git along home now boy, fore yore momma comes lookin' for ya to give ya a tannin'" Silas Martin said with a laugh and shooed the boy and his guitar home for the night.

As he left, Old Smoky passed the bottle in its brown paper sack. "That boy is gonna be a star some day."

Vrej took a swig and nodded. Passing the bottle on, he rose to settle down next to MacLeod. "Well met, my friend."

"Still playing music, I see. But where are all the women throwing themselves at you?"

Vrej laughed. "Oh... they're around. But tonight was about the music."

MacLeod chuckled, "You play that guitar as well as you ever played the _balalaika_."

"Strings are strings and music is music... and..."

Duncan slapped his back, "and Good music is Good music."

"You gonna talk man or you gonna play?" Tom said as the group began another piece. One by one they fell into the new riff and began to expand on it and work with it.

Vrej winked at Duncan. "My public awaits." He settled back down next to Silas and joined in.

Sometime later, the moon had set, and the two immortals had walked companionably along, laughing from the alcohol and the high spirits of the music. They'd left the other men behind at the crossroads as they'd turned to continue on into town.

"So what brings you to M-i-crooked letter, crooked letter..." began Vrej with a laugh.

Duncan chuckled and steadied his friend. "I was just passing through."

"Like I believe that," Vrej grunted. "Duncan MacLeod never goes anywhere or does anything without a reason."

Duncan nodded. "I'd heard that Oskar Tannenbaum was in the area."

"Oskar?" Vrej had snorted. "That sleaze-ball is around?" His normally pleasant face darkened as he ran his hand through his dark hair, currently cut in a fashionable ducktail. He raised his dark glasses to let them rest for a moment on his forehead. "I haven't seen him since Italy when he tried to seduce my then wife." Vrej grinned. "She gave him a quick kick where it hurt the most. She was a real-looker... and quite the fighter." Vrej had smiled at the memory of Caterina. Of all of his wives... she may well have been one of the feistiest.

"Yeah, he bothered the young daughter of a mortal friend. I thought I'd pay him a visit."

"Well I haven't seen him in a century, and I haven't felt anyone else around Tupelo... are you certain he's here?"

Duncan sighed. "I'm not certain of anything."

"Is your friend's daughter all right?" Vrej had asked then.

Duncan nodded. "She's fine. Thankfully the girl had enough sense to scream when he tried something. If I'd been there that day... he and I would have had it out then and there."

Vrej shook his head. "Some men don't know when to keep it in their pants. A lady should always be willing... and old enough to have a say in what occurs. I gave up virgins centuries ago. Too squeamish for me! I like a woman who knows how to please a man. Widows are always nice." Vrej winked at the Highlander. "Come home with me, my current wife cooks a hell of a breakfast."

Duncan laughed as headed toward the hotel. "Maybe I'll see you later."

Vrej had watched him go and then whistling, had turned down Third Street toward the small house he shared with his wife. A widow with no children, she was an excellent cook, and a truly loving companion. As he neared the white picket fence that surrounded his small yard, he'd felt another behind him. "MacLeod? Did you change your mind?"

"Not MacLeod, you stupid Russki!" hissed a dark voice and Oskar Tannenbaum stepped out of the darkness... his massive broadsword held before him. "I've waited a long time for this."

Vrej dropped his guitar case, kicking it out of his way as he drew his own broadsword from his long coat. He blinked away the lingering fog of his drinking and focused on the immortal before him. "Oskar... Still walking bent out of shape?" he teased.

The two immortals circled in the darkness. As the moon had long set... they had only starlight to see by. Somewhere down the street... a dog barked.

"I'm all yours," Vrej said between clenched teeth.

Oskar lunged... and sparks flashed as steel met steel. Again and again the two swung, blocked, parried and withdrew. Time around them had no meaning. It was therefore almost a surprise when Vrej heard a woman's voice call out.

"You two... there. What in tarnation do you two think you're doin'?"

The combatants froze and backed away from one another... all the time watching every move. Slowly both returned their swords to their coats.

"Another time, Russki," sneered Tannenbaum.

"That's Russian, you Prussian twit!" replied Vrej as he turned to collect his guitar case. "Sorry 'bout that Missus Presley," Vrej saluted his neighbor. "Didn't mean to cause no ruckus."

"Was that a sword he had?"

"Yep."

"And you?"

Vrej shrugged. "Nope... I was defendin' myself with a broomstick."

Mrs. Presley looked at him oddly. "You gonna call the sheriff or shall I?"

"Vrej laughed. "He's an actor friend of mine. I was just helpin' him practice for a scene he has in a play."

"Well you two are darned fools to be out there at this time of mornin'." She waved a hand and went back inside.

Vrej sighed. That had been a close call. He and Mamie might have to move. On the porch, the blonde-haired Presley boy stared at Vrej thoughtfully, then turned to follow his mother inside. Vrej wondered how much the boy had seen. After all, he had left the jam session earlier... and while he should have gone straight to bed... he likely hadn't. "Might have to have a talk with that boy someday," Vrej had murmured.

Later... he'd met MacLeod at the cafe for a light lunch. "Oskar challenged me last night," Vrej had begun as he forked up mashed potatoes.

"Then he _is_ here," MacLeod had replied.

Vrej had nodded.

"So... is he..." MacLeod had leaned forward and whispered, "you know... dead?"

"I missed the opportunity. My neighbor lady saw us goin' at it."

MacLeod sat back and lifted his iced tea, swirling the deep brown liquid in the glass and watching the lemon slice move about atop the ice. "You have a wife here and a life. I'll deal with Tannenbaum."

"But the challenge was to me."

"Mine to him takes precedence, Vrej. Go home to your wife. Love her for as long as you can. I've no one these days. I'll deal with Tannenbaum."

Vrej was deeply moved by the Scot's offer. "Still... if he comes for me..."

"He won't have the chance," MacLeod said as he drank the last of the tea and set the glass down so sharply that the remaining ice had clinked against the glass. He'd risen and tossed a few bills on the table. "Catch you later."

_**Las Vegas**_

MacLeod had dealt with Tannenbaum. He'd looked a mite poorly afterward... and at Sunday dinner had eyed Vrej's wife with an appreciative look... but then the Highlander had shaken his head and the look... so reminiscent of Tannenbaum had vanished as if it had never been.

_No_, thought Vrej. _This time it's me with no strings. I'll deal with the trash... you stay with your lady_. He continued he methodical prowl through the casino. After the third circuit, the Elvis impersonator was ready to toss in the towel when he felt it again... that slithering evil that turned his stomach and made him feel as if he were in the presence of someone very, very old.

Vrej swallowed nervously and looked around... his eyes finally resting on the almost cadaverous man at one of the bars still open. The tall man, in boots with silver spurs, a long frock coat with red silk vest, and a black ten-gallon hat, lifted his head and grinned at the Elvis. He lifted two fingers to his hat brim... and saluted. Tossing back a shot of whiskey, the immortal headed for the casino door.

Vrej followed.

In the traffic circle, the stranger lifted a hand and gestured for a taxi. When it approached, he opened the back door and then looked at Vrej. "Floyd Lamb Park, one hour." Then he climbed into the taxi.

Vrej nodded as the taxi drove off. "I'll be there," he said. He had a feeling if he wasn't, this immortal would return here and MacLeod or his young friend might pay the ultimate price. Vrej sighed. He'd truly hate to leave this life.

As he and the other musicians had predicted... the young Elvis Aaron Presley had gone on to do great things with his music. He and his parents had left Tupelo the following year for Memphis. When he began to make a name for himself in the music business, Vrej had noticed how the boy's hair had darkened... and as the years had passed... had noted Elvis' passing resemblance to him. It was as if fate had given Vrej a new identity... one that would last forever. Now... this old and very dangerous immortal might put an end to that life... both here and now... and for all the time to come.

Vrej rubbed a hand over his neck. "Maybe I ought to have fought more and loved less the last few decades." He sighed as he headed for the parking deck... and his pink _Cadillac_, a gift from a certain young man who'd made good once upon a time, and headed for Floyd Lamb Park for his date with death.


	11. 11 A Farewell to the King, part 4

**11**

_**A Farewell to the King, part 4**_

Vrej Ratavoussian, Elvis impersonator extraordinaire, was just pulling his pink _Cadillac_ out of the parking deck when he felt a nearby immortal... and glanced up to see a dark figure outlined against the pale glow of dawn at the deck's entrance.

He slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop.

Duncan MacLeod slammed his hands onto Vrej's hood and glared at him.

Vrej shifted gears and lowered the window. "Out of my way, MacLeod. Go back to your woman!"

"Not a chance! Did you find out who it was?"

"No... but he looks really, really bad. I can handle this."

MacLeod climbed into the passenger seat. Vrej recognized the set of his friend's jaw. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a Boy Scout?"

MacLeod started and then stared at Vrej curiously. "Maybe. Listen Vrej... I know you and I know that music, women, and a good time are about all you've ever been interested in. Let's just say... if he was interested in Richie... I want to be certain he gets distracted."

"That boy seems real nice, Mac. But I don't need you to fight my battles. I let you once. This time... I fight my own."

Duncan settled back in the seat. "And I won't interfere. I just want to be certain that if you lose... this guy doesn't return to the hotel looking for Richie... or me."

Vrej chuckled as he shifted into drive and pulled out into the early morning. "Have it your way... Highlander. But hear me now... he challenged _me_. _I_ will fight him."

Duncan slid down slightly in the seat. "Wouldn't have it any other way. Where are we headed?"

"Floyd Lamb Park about twenty minutes away this time of day. It was a watering hole used by the Indians and later it was a dude ranch called Tule Springs. Now it's a state park."

"Did he say where on the grounds?"

"Nope... I figure I'll drive around until I find him. MacLeod this guy looked really strange... especially for one of us."

"How so?"

Vrej glanced over at his friend. "Like he was old... and showing it all. His face was wrinkled and leathery."

MacLeod shrugged. "Some of us die at an old physical age. Maybe that's what happened to him."

Vrej shook his head. "I don't think so. He didn't seem to care who I was... only that I was something he needed."

MacLeod was quiet for some time... as if thinking. Finally as Vrej was turning onto I-95, the Highlander spoke up. "Maybe it's a good thing I'm with you. I have a bad feeling about this immortal. He may be older and more powerful than he seems."

"Well he feels old... and he feels... I don't know... dark and twisted somehow."

"You may need me," MacLeod said suddenly. "I've faced one of the ancient ones recently."

"Who?"

"Grayson," MacLeod replied.

"Ahh... that one," Vrej said with a bit of appreciation in his voice. "He was tough one... I wager."

"The best I'd ever seen," MacLeod agreed.

"Still... MacLeod... if you hadn't been here... I'd have faced this boy alone. So don't interfere, but do me a favor if I lose."

"Kill him later?"

Vrej shook his head. "That too! Be certain to bury me in my car in full regalia. The king gave me this car."

"Which king would that be." MacLeod reached forward to turn on the tape player and smiled to hear Elvis crooning away.

"There is only one king of rock and roll!" Vrej admitted. "I knew forty some years ago when I gave that boy a few lessons on the guitar that he was gonna be great."

"I don't think I know that song," Duncan admitted after he'd listened awhile.

"Oh that one's special. Him and me about two years before he died. We played together in a jam session and he gave me the tapes. He said if I ever needed to... to sell them and make a fortune."

"But you never did?"

"Nope. While I can be an impersonator... I dare not go public with a real tape of the two of us jammin' it up. How would I explain my not having aged."

Duncan nodded. "Did he know?"

"He knew a little. He knew I'd fought Tannenbaum with a sword and that I was far older than I looked, especially when we ran into one another years later. I don't think he ever figured it all out, though. Here's the turn-off." Vrej pulled up to the main entrance and stopped, pulling some bills from a pocket and placing them in a provided envelope to put in the slot. When Duncan gave him an odd look, Vrej explained. "They film who comes in... the license plates... and they keep track of who pays. You don't pay... the state of Nevada tickets you." Vrej winked... I don't want the state of Nevada to come snooping around... do you?"

Duncan shook his head. "So where do we start looking?"

"The lakes. I got a feeling he'll be down near one of the lakes."

He was. Vrej and Duncan both felt him as they circled the third lake. In an out-of-the-way picnic area, off the beaten track... and set back from the road... they found him sitting on a picnic table and smoking a cigarette.

"Bout time," his voice rasped out. "What took you?"

"Oh," Vrej smirked, "I got lost."

"Who's your friend?"

"Duncan MacLeod," Duncan interjected. "Don't mind me. I'm just here to drive the car back to the hotel."

"Hmmm... Maybe when I finish with the singer... I'll take you on... Is that what they mean when they say double-header?"

"So whom am I facing?" asked Vrej as he removed his cape and gave his jeweled rapier a few back and forth flicks as he warmed up.

"My name is Amon-ho-tep," the immortal said. "I'm Egyptian."

"Really? What brings you to America?" Vrej did a deep knee bend... wishing he were a little lighter on his feet. He'd put on a few pounds recently to play the older Elvis and to make him look more real.

"Some museum brought me. I never learned which one." Amon-ho-tep took one final drag on his cigarette and then dropped it... stepping on it to put it out.

"Museum?" asked Duncan.

"I was an architect and builder of pyramids when the kingdom on the Nile was the center of the world. I was crushed by a falling stone and... in the process of being embalmed when I awakened. The priests killed me again... and buried me without completing the process... In other words... I still had my brain and most of my organs.

"I awoke in darkness... wrapped tightly in the linen strips and sealed in a stone sarcophagus. I died again and again... oblivious to what I was. As the centuries passed... I slept more and was aware less. Then in the year you call 1925... I felt movement, and heard voices speaking an unknown tongue. Eventually the sarcophagus was opened... yet I was too weak to move or call out.

"Sealed in it once more... I endured a voyage on the ocean and was brought here where I evidently toured this country as an object to be gawked at. I learned the language by listening. Still... I was too weak to move.

"One night I felt the great power of the lightning. One of us had found me. He stole my sarcophagus and body from the show and took me away. But he was not my deliverer... he was curious... but planned on beheading me. I summoned all my strength to fight him off. Succeeding... for I was stronger and more clever than he assumed, I learned who and what I was in the storm of memories that filled me and revitalized me so that I could at last walk amongst living men once more."

'Pardon me," said Duncan. "But have you looked into a mirror?"

"Ahh... the reason I seek another of us. The manner of my death, partial embalming, and long centuries in a tomb so depleted my system... that it is only after a quickening that I revitalize... and then only for a brief amount of time. Always I must find another one... and another one... to hold off the ravages of time. That boy at the casino would be especially fine. It was him I'd hope to get. I find the young not quite immortal ones... very juicy... very filling."

Both Vrej and Duncan shuddered slightly. "That is just so wrong," murmured Vrej. "So... shall we?"

Amon-ho-tep rose to pull an especially thick and stout long bladed weapon from his coat. It had a short wooden handle and seemed very like a Masai spear.

Vrej stared at the thickness of the blade and then at his thin rapier. "Pardon me just one second," he said and retreated to the trunk of the _Caddy_ where he tossed in the rapier and pulled out a stout broadsword. Slamming the trunk he returned to Amon-ho-tep.

"Is that an antique?" Duncan was asking the Egyptian. Then the Highlander shrugged. "I'm in the business."

"No," Amon-ho-tep was shaking his head. "I had it crafted by an expert about fifty years ago. "I did not care for the swords of others. I wanted something more like the blades of my youth. But the metal is high grade steel rather than bronze."

"Looks very efficient," Duncan was saying.

Amon-ho-tep grinned widely. "I find it serves me well. Now then... you will not interfere?"

Duncan shook his head.

"Good! Once I've had the two of you... the boy will be my next target."

Vrej nodded to Duncan. "Remember what I told you."

Duncan nodded. Already Vrej knew the Highlander was warming up and readying himself for a fight.

Vrej faced the Egyptian.

"So... prune-face... let's have a go at it."

Amon-ho-tep's custom blade turned swiftly around in his hands. He leaped back and forth and raised it like a spear moving his arm back and forth but not letting go.

Vrej swallowed nervously, and circled about, weaving to and fro to prevent his opponent from being able to draw a clear shot should he decide to cast the spear-like weapon. Again and again they circled... each man moving and trying to draw the other into his type of fight.

The sun rose higher in the clear blue sky. Vrej could hear crickets chirping in the tall grass near the lake. In the heat... he was perspiring heavily. His opponent, however, did not seem to feel the heat. Yet his face looked dryer and more leathery as time passed. If it was true he needed a quickening to regenerate... then Vrej was determined not to give him one. This thing from the past should be dead... but wasn't. He should never have been released into the modern world. It was one thing to be reborn shortly after death and then live through the centuries... it was another to sleep the centuries away with part of your insides gone... Vrej didn't even want to know what parts were gone and if the sickly sweet odor of flowers and spices was from the items that had been placed within Amon-ho-tep as part of the process. Were those spices continually fighting to dry him out? What would happen to Vrej if he took on the man's quickening? Would he still be Vrej Ratavoussian?

Finally Amon-ho-tep saw an opening and thrust his weapon sharply into Vrej's side. The Russian turned swiftly as the blade entered so that it was little more than a flesh wound and grabbed the blade to pull Amon-ho-tep close. He swung his broadsword down sharply.

The Egyptian gasped and loosened his grip on his weapon as he stumbled back. Strangely... he did not bleed. Vrej placed both hands on his broadsword and swung with a mighty sweep. Amon-ho-tep's eyes bugged out as the blade passed through his neck. His tongue darted out and he hissed a long very sibilant hiss and Vrej smelled clearly the spices and odor of rotting flowers. Then the head slid off to one side.

A weak blue mist rose from the dead body and the cloying odor of rot darted into Vrej's mouth and deeply into his system before exploding with a sudden heat along his veins. He saw the glory and power of Egypt. He saw pyramids rise under Amon-hot-tep's guiding hand. He felt the rock and then the horrible feel of his insides being ripped away. For a moment he could feel the hot hook inserted up his nostril to scramble and remove his brain and his fighting of that action. Then he felt the long darkness of the centuries... and the confusion of not understanding why he still thought and still felt.

At last the mist dissipated and Vrej fell to his knees coughing and gagging at the spicy aftertaste of the old immortal. Finally he rose weakly.

"Are you all right?" Duncan asked.

"Yeah... I'm just all shook up," Vrej winked. "How about you drive me home?"

Duncan clapped him on the back and led him back to the _Cadillac_. "That might be a very good idea."

Several hours later as Vrej was saying good-bye to Duncan and his lovely bride, he cast a friendly glance at Richie and the young woman in his arms. "You come back to see me some time young Richie. I'll give you a real tour of the place."

"Hell, yes, Elvis," Richie punched him in the arm. "We'll do the town... take in the sights."

Vrej nodded. "Viva Las Vegas!" he laughed and watched them drive away. He hoped the young man would return one day soon. He looked, thought Vrej... very young and very juicy and filled with the possibility of immortality. _In fact_, Vrej thought as he looked around. He might start keeping an eye out for the young ones. They were always so much more satisfying when they were young.

**Vrej Ratavoussian** is a canon immortal who was the unseen immortal that took the head of Danny Cimoli in Las Vegas in 1996. At that time, he was still an Elvis impersonator. I see him as portrayed by Bruce Campbell. His age and origin are from **_The New Watcher Chronicles_** CD-ROM. His association with Duncan MacLeod and Elvis Presley is my own invention.


	12. 12 The Zone, part 1

**Author's Note:**_ I won't be giving this episode a complete rewrite... but thought I'd structure it from Charlie DeSalvo's viewpoint as I don't think too many of the actual events of the episode would change. Charlie's understanding of what he sees... and his confusion about them... might be interesting. By the way... anytime a vote is taken as to the worst episode of the series... "_The Zone_" always gets my vote._ elle

**12**

_**The Zone, part 1**_

Charlie DeSalvo replaced the push broom in the closet and glanced around the _dojo_. What had once been his baby... his attempt at breaking free of the dictates of society that had placed him on the lower _strata_... was... while it still existed... no longer his. The _dojo_ belonged to the rich white guy from uptown... and Charlie once more worked... for the man.

Charlie DeSalvo was not unused to disappointment. Born the product of a mixed marriage... Italian father and Creole mother, Charlie had faced the snubs and jeers of those around him as he grew up. The family of his swarthy father... actually darker-skinned than his mixed race quadroon mother had rejected both mother and son when his father had died suddenly as somehow not being white enough. His mother had retreated to the ghetto area of Seacouver and taken in laundry and cleaned the houses of the families uptown. She'd refused the handouts of the government... her pride determining that she and her son would be just fine.

Growing up, Charlie had sported black eyes and split lips many nights that he'd hidden from his weary mother. The beatings were from those who deemed him not "black" enough. Most of the denizens of the area that came to be known as the Zone... an area that was supposedly cleared of habitation and due to be demolished for the building of a new shopping mall and sports complex that never happened... had trickled back illegally over the years, and lived their hand to mouth existence with a weary countenance.

A lonely child, Charlie had used the beatings as a focus for his determination to leave this existence behind. He'd applied himself in school and had kept secret his actual home address when he was selected to attend the prestigious **_Central High School_**. He'd done well in his studies... and excelled on the wrestling team. Likely, his wrestling skills had been the determining factor for his acceptance at the mostly white school.

His sophomore year he'd taken an aptitude test that had brought the U.S. Navy recruiter around. Charlie had listened... and seeing a way out... and a life where a man could be judged not by the color of his skin but by his abilities... he'd signed on. His focus on the prize... had helped him to become a Navy Seal. Charlie had at last found acceptance. He sent money to his mother... urging her to leave the Zone... and banked the rest for a business opportunity.

An injury on a mission had resulted in his being let go early. Still, he'd had enough money to rent a building, and buy equipment. He still had skills... and he could teach. Unfortunately... his mother's recent illness had used up the remainder of his savings. With her death from cancer... he'd been unable to pay her medical bills, her funeral, and his business bills. Thus... the infusion of cash from selling the business to Duncan MacLeod had been necessary.

Charlie had not explained to MacLeod his reasons for selling; he'd simply taken the money... paid his mother's final bills... and been grateful that MacLeod had wanted him to remain to manage the place. Charlie was both grateful that he had a job... and angry that he no longer worked for himself. Still... if kept at it... perhaps he could eventually buy the business back... or leave and start again. To that effort... he held his tongue... and worked for the man.

Glancing at the Saturday morning schedule... Charlie mentally readied himself for the light load of Saturday classes. The first one wasn't until eleven... so he had some time to workout until the early arrivals would begin to show up.

Removing his shoes, Charlie stepped on the mat and began his routine... his eyes closed as he tried to visualize his opponent. Lately... his opponent wore the face of his new boss who'd wiped the floor with him several times. Charlie punched and kicked... trying to be faster and more devious than the memory of his losses.

Hearing a step... he opened his eyes as he kicked and punched... landing in a half-crouch. Glancing up... he saw the elderly man who'd shown up here a few times... some friend of MacLeod's... although the two didn't seem especially close.

"MacLeod's not here," Charlie said curtly as he drew in a deep breath and prepared to continue.

"He will be," the man said with a chuckle. He held out a hand. "Names Joe... Dawson."

Charlie nodded and returned the gesture... noting the strong grip of the man. "Charlie DeSalvo."

"Yeah, I know." He looked around. "This place should do well. Good location... excellent instructor."

Charlie felt his face redden slightly. "Yeah... so why don't I own it anymore?"

Dawson shrugged. "Bad timing. Your mom's illness didn't help."

Charlie narrowed his gaze. "How do you know about that?"

The man shifted his cane from one hand to the other with a shrug. "It's my business to know about the lives of MacLeod's friends."

"You his lawyer?"

Dawson chuckled and shook his head. "Nope... I'm just a history buff."

Charlie swallowed the retort as he glanced up to see MacLeod, duffel bag in one hand appear at the entrance. He eyed Dawson with a snort. "What do you want?"

"Mac," Dawson held out a friendly hand that MacLeod ignored as he brushed past him. "We need to talk."

MacLeod removed the bag from his shoulder and tossed it to one side. He stood with his back to Dawson and Charlie... his hands on his slim hips. Finally MacLeod turned and with a gesture of his head motioned Dawson into the office and closed the door.

Charlie shook his head. Whatever was the problem between the two of them... it wasn't his problem... except if it impacted on the business.

Drew Carter and Mike Johnson arrived at that point... so Charlie's attention turned to getting his first two clients of the morning settled and ready for their workouts. Both men were interested in boxing... and generally sparred with one another. Charlie had never asked who or what they intended to use the skills he taught them on. He didn't really want to know.

Occasionally he heard voices raised in his office... but tried to focus on the two men in the _dojo_ instead. Eventually the door opened and as MacLeod was showing Dawson out... Charlie heard the phrase that made his blood run cold... the Zone!

He tapped MacLeod on the shoulder. "Hey man, you don't want to go messing around down there."

"It's not nice to eavesdrop, Charlie," Duncan said darkly.

Charlie stepped back with his hands raised. "I wasn't trying to... but man that is no place for you. Your friend should know that."

MacLeod watched Dawson leave. "Who says he's my friend?"

"He does," Charlie replied insistently.

MacLeod picked up his bag, replacing it thoughtfully on his shoulder as he closed his eyes and shook his head... as if trying to order his thoughts. His eyes snapped open. "I'll be back later, Charlie," he said and stormed out the entrance.

Charlie was not a happy man. If anything happened to MacLeod down there... this place could be sold again... and the next owner might not want him to remain. Charlie angrily snapped a towel at a nearby punching bag.

A few moments later, MacLeod's young friend Richie something or other showed up... looking around for the big man. Charlie saw a way out.

"Hey... Richie... right... Richie?"

"Yeah... Hi Charlie, I was supposed to meet Mac here."

"He had some sort of meeting to go to and said he'd be late... for you to wait. In fact," Charlie said as he thoughtfully rubbed his jaw as if the idea were just occurring to him. "I could use your help."

My help?"

"Yeah..." Charlie said with a snap of his fingers. "I forgot I had an appointment this morning and had planned to ask MacLeod to take my classes and watch the place. You... my man are the answer to a prayer."

Richie pointed at himself and looked around. "Me?"

Charlie placed one arm over the young man's shoulders and continued. "I just need for you to keep an eye on things. I shouldn't be long. Can you do that?"

"I can't teach your classes," Richie protested.

"You don't need to. Just tell Wyatt that he's to handle the Greco-Roman wrestling until I get back. That's not until eleven. If I'm not back by then... Wyatt'll do fine. I don't have another structured class until two. That's a private fencing class. Roger can workout if I'm not back. Tell him we'll reschedule if need be." Smoothly Charlie assured the young man that the day would go well... that all he needed to do was to oversee things and make certain everything flowed smoothly. Then Charlie was out the door. He needed to get to the Zone to keep an eye on his boss... and protect him.

Behind him in the _dojo_... Richie looked around as the two heavily muscled men approached him... each grinning as if they'd found a new toy to torment.

"Uh... guys," said Richie... suddenly wondering if this job was going to be quite as easy as Charlie had described.

Charlie parked his beat-up Ford in a lot that bordered the Zone... and entered on foot. If anything, this place looked far worse than it had when he'd lived here. There were more people... many living in makeshift shelters on the street as the buildings were often condemned and boarded up. If in years past, it had been a place where the poor had congregated... now it seemed a cesspool of the destitute. Decay and desperation were apparent everywhere.

The former Navy Seal shook his head at the sights surrounding him. When he'd lived here... when his mother had lived here... they were poor... but they'd had pride. So too had others. Now... pride in anything was not something he saw reflected in the blank faces of the denizens of the Zone.

Rounding a corner he was pulled quickly into a wall and stared at the fist poised at eye level.

"Nice to see you, too, MacLeod," Charlie said.

"Are you following me, Charlie?"

"Man... you got no idea how bad it can get down here. I grew up here. I know the people. Trust me, they won't talk to you. Whatever it is you're lookin' for here... you won't find it."

His boss' eyes widened momentarily. "Go home, Charlie."

"Man... this was my home," Charlie said as he angrily shook off MacLeod's grip. "I ain't leavin' you down here. You could get killed."

A slight smile flickered across the big man's face. "Really?" He laughed a moment and then nodded. "All right Charlie... who do I talk to?"

Charlie shrugged in his jacket and lifted his head proudly. "That's more like it. I got a friend who runs a free medical clinic down here. We should start with her."

Charlie pivoted as he gestured MacLeod to follow him. They'd start with Asia. Charlie's mom had gone to Asia when she'd first gotten sick last year. The young woman had been the one to insist that Charlie take his mother to a real doctor. He and Asia had gone to school together. If he'd been teased for being "too-white"... Asia had been teased for being "too ugly". Asia had never let it bother her... and she'd grown into an attractive young black woman with a gentle and caring soul who was dedicated to helping those around her. Maybe Asia would tell MacLeod what he needed to know so that Charlie could get him out of here.

"Don't nothin' go down in the Zone," Charlie added, "without Asia knowin' 'bout it." He noticed that with his return to this place... he was re-adopting the speech patterns and walk of a resident here. After his mother had died, Charlie had sworn to himself that he'd never come back here... yet here he was. And, to make matters worse... he was baby-sitting the man.


	13. 13 The Zone, part 2

**Author's Note: **_Sorry this took so long to post, but real life intervened... along with a reluctance to actually watch this episode to be certain what Charlie witnessed. I hope the wait was worth it._ elle

**13**

_**The Zone, part 2**_

Charlie shivered in his wet clothes as he pulled into his parking spot outside the _dojo_. Turning the ignition off, he wondered again just how everything had gone so horribly wrong.

It had started out well enough. He'd taken MacLeod to see Asia and the two of them had talked about Canaan and his influence over people in the Zone. Charlie had found it strange that Asia seemed complacent about Canaan... warning them both that this was not their concern.

MacLeod, of course, had assured her that it was and that he'd be fine. But he wasn't fine.

They'd finally located Canaan, and just as they watched him from the shadows, MacLeod seemed to change... almost relax. "Let's go, Charlie. My friend was wrong. Canaan isn't what he thought he was."

Charlie had grabbed his boss' arm in confusion. They'd spent all day combing this place to find Canaan and now that they had... MacLeod was giving up? This made no sense, especially as Charlie had found himself increasingly horrified at the conditions down here. Canaan _had_ to be stopped. "That's it?" he barked. "You see what's happening, MacLeod. Someone _has_ to do something."

MacLeod had nodded. "Maybe that someone should be you. I'm the outsider here, Charlie. It will take someone from here and with ties to this place to change things."

Charlie had stepped back as MacLeod began to walk away. It was at that point, he'd decided his boss was right and that he could and should take that first step. He'd seen Canaan give a young boy named Tio, a gun. Now, Charlie DeSalvo decided it was time to intervene.

"Yo... Tio, it's Charlie... Charlie DeSalvo. How're ya doin'?" Easily he'd fallen into the old sauntering walk. He'd raised his hand to give the local version of the hip handshake.

Tio had snarled at him belligerently. "You don't belong here any more."

Charlie had felt as if turning and walking away were what he wanted to do. Instead he'd forced the issue and snatched Tio's new gun from the waistband of his ragged jeans. "You think this is the answer? This will only get you killed!"

Tio had fought to get the gun back, but Charlie had easily rebuffed the teen, making certain he didn't really hurt him. "Listen to me, Tio. Guns are not the answer,"

"What do you know?" the boy had snapped back.

"More than you, apparently."

Tio's two companions had closed in on Charlie at that point. Realizing he was out-numbered, Charlie had sighed and returned the gun. "Trust me Tio. That gun will get you killed."

"Yeah... like the Bible says... live by the sword... die by the sword. Hey... guns are better." Tio had shoved the gun back into his jeans, and had sauntered away with his two friends.

Charlie had gazed after him sadly. Tio reminded him so much of himself at that age... angry at the world... so certain he knew everything about everything. If he were to save this young man... it would take more than just telling him that he was on the wrong path.

Charlie had turned just in time to see Canaan's two bodyguards dumping an unconscious body into Seacouver Bay. "Crap!" seethed Charlie as he realized just who the man was.

He'd raced to the dock, pulling off his jacket when he'd realized that MacLeod was nowhere to be seen. Moments later, he'd dived into the murky water and begun his search.

A search that had been fruitless! MacLeod never surfaced. His unconscious body must have been carried away on the rip current that Charlie could feel in the water. For half an hour he dove and dove again... hoping against hope that he'd find him. But he hadn't.

Charlie leaned back in the front seat of his car. He needed to call the police. Yet... would they come to the Zone... would they even care? Charlie slammed one fist against the steering wheel and yelped as felt the jab of pain. Angrily he climbed out and headed inside, barely noticing the patrons going through their routines.

"Aw man, am I glad you're back," young Richie Ryan said. "I was afraid some of these guys might use _me_ as a punching bag."

Charlie halted and stared numbly at the boy. How could he tell him? He shook his head.

"Charlie, my man," laughed Richie. "You look like you just lost your best friend. What's up? And why are you soaked? Man you smell like dead fish!"

Charlie slumped on the stair railing and shook his head. Finally he met Richie's gaze. "MacLeod is dead."

Richie nearly laughed... then sobered quickly. "What did you see?"

Charlie briefly explained about following his boss to the Zone and what had transpired. "They knocked him out or killed him and tossed his body into the harbor. I searched for him Richie. For over half an hour I searched and I couldn't find him or his body."

Richie bit his lip and looked evasive. "I'm sure Mac's fine, Charlie. He's a tough character."

Charlie shook his head. "I got to call the police and oh man... his wife. I got to tell her." He rose to head to the office.

Richie grabbed him. "Wait on that call to the police. Let's be sure he's dead. And... uh... I'll go see Tessa. I'll take care of telling her."

Charlie shook his head, confused at the young man's _laissez faire_ attitude. "I can't do that," he said shrugging free.

Richie grabbed him again. "Just wait until I talk to Tessa. I'll call you. Then you can call the police. Now go get cleaned up."

Charlie nodded. He did feel awful. A long hot shower was awfully inviting. And rushing to call the police would not bring Duncan MacLeod back to life. Slowly he turned and began to climb the stairs to the upstairs shower room. Halfway up, he turned to regard MacLeod's young friend. "You tell her I'll stop by and tell her everything... soon as I clean up."

"Right," Richie said, saluting him.

Charlie hit the showers.

* * *

Half an hour later, clean and dressed, Charlie sauntered down the stairs and into his office. The place had emptied out as it was near dark. He slumped in his desk chair and stared at the phone. He had MacLeod's card for the antique store somewhere in the desk. He turned on the small desk lamp and sorted through the cards in the drawer... finally coming up with the one he needed... **_MacLeod & Noel Antiques_**. Numbly Charlie stared at the telephone number and the address.

He was jolted by the phone.

"DeSalvo's," he answered before thinking he should have just let it ring.

"Charlie?"

"Yeah... Richie?"

There was a pause. "Yeah... listen. Mac's fine. He's home and you haven't called the police or anything have you?"

"Fine? He's fine? Man... he's dead!"

"No, Charlie. He's not. But he's mad as hell, right now."

"Charlie?" snapped MacLeod's voice suddenly. "I'm fine. But you stay the hell out of this."

"Like hell, MacLeod. I'm part of this now. And how did you get out of the water without my seeing you?"

There was a long pause. "I don't know Charlie. I woke up when I hit the water. It was freezing. I climbed out and drove home. Listen... just don't call in the authorities. Everything's fine. I'm fine. And _I'll _deal with Canaan."

Charlie heard the sudden click ending the conversation as MacLeod hung up. Thoughtfully he turned the business card over and over in his hands. If his boss thought he was dealing with Canaan alone... he had another thing coming.

Snapping off the light, Charlie headed for his car. He wanted to see MacLeod personally.

* * *

Through the windows of the antique store, Charlie could see an interesting _tableau_. MacLeod, big as life, Richie leaning against a _bombé_ chest and biting his fingernails, the man with the cane... Dawson something or other... arguing with MacLeod. While pacing about the room, smoking a cigarette, was a tall, leggy blonde. Mrs. MacLeod, Charlie assumed thinking that she was just exactly the sort of beauty that MacLeod would go for. He could hear voices raised, but what he heard did not make a lot of sense.

"You're sure he's not like you?"

"Believe me... I was close enough to tell."

"Then that's that. Case closed."

"No." MacLeod sounded bitter. "After what he did, maybe you're right. Maybe I should intervene. Those people need help."

"This is no longer our concern MacLeod,"

"No? You watch. You keep your hands off because you're afraid to get them dirty. You want me to get involved and do the dirty work. I do not work for you Dawson... nor for your people. I went down there as a favor. Now... I'm going to stop this maniac because it has to be done."

"Because he tried to beat your brains out and tossed you in the water as a meal for the fishes?"

"It's personal."

Dawson shook his head. "I'm sorry I involved you."

"Well you did. Now... get out of here. I don't want you coming around here anymore. I don't want to even know you exist."

"Despite whatever you think... I _am_ your friend," Dawson replied as he headed for the door.

"Then stay out of my life. I'll finish this up for my own reasons, but I don't want you asking me to do anything for you ever again."

"Sure, MacLeod. We watch, record and never interfere. I forgot that last part. I won't again."

Charlie hid in the shadows at the corner of the building as Dawson exited the store. The man stood hunched over on the sidewalk for some time before he shook his head as if pushing away some heavy load and headed to his car.

After waiting for him to leave, Charlie knocked on the storefront's door.

"What do you want, Charlie?" MacLeod said as he admitted him.

"To be certain I wasn't dreaming earlier while on the phone."

"I told you to stay out of this."

Charlie put his hands on his hops and shook his head. "You don't understand. You're involved and I'm involved. I grew up there MacLeod. I can't just stand back and let it continue. Canaan _has_ to be stopped. Like you said... someone from the area has to make the first moves. That has to be me. No one will listen to you. To their eyes... you're the man... the rich man... just slumming to feel better about himself."

MacLeod nodded. "I don't want anything to happen to you Charlie. Let's both get a good night's sleep. I'm exhausted and you look the same way. Go home. We'll talk tomorrow."

"All right," Charlie agreed and turned to leave, paused and turned back. "But MacLeod, don't go back down there without me. Promise me that."

MacLeod nodded. But even as Charlie left, he wondered if his boss had really meant that... or was agreeing only to get him to go home. Still... Charlie was tired. He was sore from his frantic dives and his chest still burned from holding his breath so long under the water. It had been a while since he'd had a workout quite like that. If he were tired... MacLeod had to be exhausted. So he'd go home... and he'd confront the man tomorrow. Together, they'd work something out. Canaan's goose was as good as cooked. Course then, helping to get the residents of the Zone on their feet was another matter entirely.

* * *

By mid-morning, Charlie had decided that MacLeod had given him the slip. Still... he was hanging out at the _dojo_... making up the classes and private lessons he'd missed yesterday... and feeling more and more frustrated.

"Harder!" he told Matt Taylor and urged the young man to hit the pad Charlie was holding with even more force than he had been previously.

Then Charlie saw her. Asia. She was leaning against the doorjamb looking sad and wistful. Charlie waved his student off. "Hey... Asia," he smiled warmly, confused as to why she was here.

"I'm so sorry about your friend," Asia said sadly as she took hold of one of Charlie's hands. "I heard this morning about what happened to him yesterday."

Charlie pulled back. "What happened?" For a moment he was confused. "You mean MacLeod? He's fine. I saw him last night."

Asia's eyes widened. "I heard he was dead."

Charlie shook his head. "Naw... he's walkin' and talkin'... big as life."

Asia bit her lip. "Charlie... you have to keep him out of the Zone. When Canaan hears he's alive... he'll send his muscle after him."

"Have you bought into Canaan's lies, Asia? I thought you were smarter than that."

"When was the last time you came around, Charlie? Before your mom died? You left. All those who could get out... left. I stayed."

"And you're making a difference."

Asia shook her head, the tears welling up in her eyes. "You don't understand. Canaan's money is what funds the clinic. Without Canaan... things would be worse than they are. At least he cares about us."

"Canaan is just using you!" Charlie said, his voice rising in frustration. "You can't let him."

Asia backed away. "Just tell your friend to stay away." She turned to flee the _dojo_, running into Richie who'd just entered. She backed away from him apologetically and ran.

"Who was that?"

"An old friend. Now where's MacLeod?"

Richie shuffled his feet. Lying to a friend was evidently not his strong point. "He's... uh... got some things to do. He'll be here later."

"Don't tell me he went down there again... and without me."

Richie shrugged. "Then I won't tell you."

Charlie slammed a fist into the pad he was still holding. "Man! I knew it. He's gonna get himself killed."

"Mac's not easy to kill, Charlie," the young man said. "He can take care of himself."

"Like yesterday? I turned my back on him for five minutes and look what happened."

"But he was fine," Richie said stepping closer to Charlie and lowering his voice. "Trust me, Charlie... Mac will be fine."

"I hope you're right, Rich... I really do." But the tension that had tied Charlie's stomach into knots... was growing by the moment. His boss was hiding something... something dangerous. And Charlie was determined to find out what it was.

* * *

When the phone rang, Charlie practically flew through the air to get it. It had been several hours since Richie had left... and there had been no word from MacLeod.

"Charlie?" came his boss' clipped voice. "Asia is gonna let us use the clinic as a meeting place to organize the residents to make a stand against Canaan. I need you to help convince them to come. They know you. They'll trust you."

"Where'll you be?"

"I'll be along later. Everything will be fine Charlie. I'll keep Canaan occupied this afternoon. You get people to the clinic. You were right... I do need your help."

"I'm on it MacLeod," Charlie replied as his boss hung up. Charlie replaced the handset in the cradle with a smile. His boss needed him. He could make a difference. All he had to do was come through on his boasts and get people to the clinic. "Yeah," Charlie laughed. "I can do this." He tossed his spare keys to Bill Sherman. "I have to go out. Lock the place up when you leave.

"Right," Bill said as he caught the keys. He gave Charlie a salute as the former Seal left.

* * *

It was a long afternoon... and was already dark by the time Charlie had convinced a dozen residents and old acquaintances to meet at the clinic. It was open... but deserted. Looking around, Charlie had a very bad feeling about this. But if he left... the others would vanish. Right now, he needed to remain with them and work on convincing them that together they were stronger than Canaan and could stop his bullying and intimidation.

He'd been at it nearly an hour when the door opened and Canaan sauntered in. "You shoulda stayed out of this Charlie."

He motioned to his men. One goon grabbed Charlie's arms behind him while the other began using him as a punching bag. Moments later, Charlie was face down on the floor. Anger rose in him... an anger born of dealing with guys bigger and faster than him all his life. No more would he take it! Finding strength from somewhere, he leaped up and swung one leg about. He hadn't been in the Navy all those years without learning how to handle bullies. His foot connected with Canaan's side. The bully went down. Charlie then let fly with a series of punches at the other two.

The residents were fleeing the clinic. Charlie backed away to join them. Once outside, though, he was tackled by one of the men. This time the man bent Charlie's arm behind his back and placed a foot on Charlie's neck. "Smart-ass," the man said.

Canaan stood over him with a baseball bat. "No one stands against me." He turned to the remaining residents huddled in the shadows. "No one... do you hear me!" He raised the bat and Charlie closed his eyes, flinching in anticipation of the blow.

Then he heard MacLeod's voice and opened an eye.

Canaan seemed surprised. "You're dead. I took care both of you."

"Sorry, I'm hard to kill," MacLeod retorted and launched into an attack on Canaan. Charlie roused himself and managed to break free of the hold Canaan's goon had on him. He leaped to his feet and began lashing out at the man who'd been holding him down.

The other had gone to Canaan's defense against MacLeod. But his boss made short work of the bodyguard and turned back to Canaan. Again and again he pounded him until the man and his flashy suit lay crumpled in a filthy gutter.

Charlie managed to get his opponent face down on the ground. He returned the earlier favor and pressed his knee into the small of the bodyguard's back. "Stay down man. It's over." The bodyguard relaxed as Charlie rose.

Canaan rose as well. This time he wiped his mouth as he glared at MacLeod... then turned. Fast as lightning he pulled out a gun.

"Watch it MacLeod," Charlie said.

"He's got a gun!" cried Asia.

MacLeod moved so fast that he seemed a blur. Charlie had a sudden insight into his boss. As many times as he'd wiped up the floor with Charlie, he had never moved so fast. This was unreal as MacLeod turned and kicked out at Canaan so that the gun went flying into one gutter and Canaan into another.

Canaan's two men... evidently seeing the writing on the wall... fled.

The residents of the Zone pressed in on the bully. Their faces were hard. They spit on him and walked away. The man's hold on them was broken.

Asia ran one hand over Charlie's battered face. "I'm so sorry."

Charlie brushed her off. "You sold out to that scum."

Asia backed away. She shook her head as she turned to enter the clinic.

"Thanks," said MacLeod to her as he grabbed her by the arm.

"No... thank you," she replied softly, glancing back at Charlie's angry face.

* * *

Come Monday morning, Charlie was still mad.

He slammed hit after hit into a punching bag. He was as angry as he'd ever been.

"You should give her a break," MacLeod said from behind him.

"Why? She sold out," snapped Charlie as he hit the bag again.

"True, but in the end, she made the right choices. No one is perfect Charlie. We all make mistakes. Forgiveness is an important part of life."

"And you are so old and wise that you know all about it," Charlie retorted.

MacLeod chuckled. "No. I'm not that old, Charlie. But I've been there. I know what it's like to have a friend betray your trust. And I know how much it can cost. Asia will need your support in the coming weeks, perhaps even more than before."

"Just what are you MacLeod? You put moves on Canaan and his men that were faster and more complex than anything I've ever seen. You didn't even seem human."

MacLeod just shrugged. "Maybe I'm just an old soldier."

Charlie snorted. "You ain't gonna tell me... are you?"

MacLeod shook his head. "There's nothing to tell." He turned to enter the office.

Charlie grabbed his arm. "I'm gonna find out what your secret is, MacLeod. You can't keep it forever."

MacLeod gave him an odd expression as if recalling something painful from another time, another place. "Maybe I will tell you someday, Charlie. Maybe someday." He entered the office and shut the door.

Charlie took a deep cleansing breath and grabbed a broom. "And I'll wait for that explanation. No matter what, MacLeod. I'll be watching you."


	14. 14 Interlude

_My apologies for being gone so long. I've had a lot of real life to deal with recently. Hopefully I will be adding onto this on a regular basis. elle_

* * *

**14**

_**Interlude**_

_Bow... cross-step... punch left... double-punch right..._

Within the choreagraphed movements of the _kata_... Duncan drifted without conscious thought. The movements centered his being... and freed his soul. But in that freedom... were doubts... and a confusion of memory that made no sense.

_Chop left... step right... turn... lunge... high kick..._

Why did he see Tessa dead in his arms, blood pooling about her? Why did he see a grave in Paris? Tessa was at home. Warm... loving... vibrant... and alive. He could hear her laughter, feel her touch... and smell her on him even now.

_Slow high kick right... lash out... lash out... hop... turn..._

Why did Richie's presence provoke such sadness? Yes... the boy was pre-immortal and would one day... if that was his fate... die and be reborn. "He knows about immortals," the thought drifted through his mind. "If and when it happens... he'll be prepared," the thought insisted. His failure with previous students was that he'd never told them about immortality or the Game until it happened to them. He'd never prepared them for the possibility of immortality... and they'd all died. While Richie still couldn't know that immortality might be his fate, knowing Immortals existed might help him... prepare him. Then why did he see Richie standing before him... his face filled with concern... and see his _katana_ slice off the young man's head?

_Punch... kick... turn... hop... control... control... control..._

Why did Annie Devlin's death at his hands fill him with such despair? And why did he have a fleeting memory of holding her in his arms... making love to her? They'd never been an item! If they had... could love and friendship have balanced the hate in her soul... the need for revenge?

_Bend knees... leap... kick... punch... open-hand chop... land and turn..._

Las Vegas. He'd missed something there. He'd felt a compulsion to second Vrej Ratavoussian... to prevent something. "I'm here for a reason," the thought had been so insistent that he'd left Tessa alone in the honeymoon bed. Vrej needed his help! Yet he hadn't. The big Russian had taken out the Egyptian without problem. Why then did he feel as if he'd failed? What was the nagging worry in the back of his mind?

_Punch... punch... punch... lift left leg and pivot..._

Dawson? Why does he feel like something wonderful is passing him by? What has that Watcher to do with him? "Stay out of my life! Stay away from me and mine!" he'd thundered at the man. And a sense of loss echoed in those words. True friendship is a rare thing... he knows... but can there be such a thing as friendship between Immortal and Watcher?

_Push... back-step... turn left... pull... pull... pull..._

Charlie de Salvo? Why does he see him dead? Charlie is fine... if somewhat a pest. Why does he feel a need to tell him anything? He's just an employee. He barely knows the former Navy Seal. He never tells mortals unless he needs to. He'd told Tessa because he'd realized how much he loved her... all those years ago... She'd needed to know... to understand... and she had. Richie had found out on his own... he'd had to sit the boy down and explain. Dawson... he and all his Watcher friends knew. Too many knew!

_Punch... punch... step left... step right... punch... punch... punch..._

Horton was dead. Horton denied killing Darius right until the end. His people were drummed out. One of them had taken Tessa. Tessa dead in his arms... warmth leaving her body... the life drained out of her.

He froze... unable to continue. The overhead fan continued to turn lazily in the _dojo_ cooling the sweat covering his body. He was becoming a killing machine as he once had... something he'd hoped would not be necessary while Tessa lived. Slowly Duncan balled his fists and squeezed until he could sense that his nails pierced his flesh and blood poured momentarily. The pain made him focus again. "Tessa is not dead," Duncan said aloud to the shadows in the poorly lit room. "Richie has years... yet." The whir of the un-balanced fan _thrummed_. "Anyone else is not my responsibility. What happens... happens."

_Sheath... bow... step back... turn..."_


	15. 15 The Return of Amanda, part 1

**15**

_**The Return of Amanda (part 1)**_

Duncan stretched prone on the bed as Tessa straddled his back and massaged his shoulders. Her artist's hands... slender... strong... and lithe... felt the hard rock of his muscles under her hands. Gone was the firm but slender man she'd fallen in love with. Oh, she mused, Duncan had always had an amazing physique... he'd always worked out... mainly jogging and some meditative exercise... but it was different now. Ever since Paris... ever since Darius had vanished... Duncan had been dedicating a good part of every day to physical exercise and martial arts training.

Now his muscles were positively bulging... even relaxed. They had definition... and even his tendons were corded. His hands had grown callused with his daily practice with sword and staff and punching bag.

Even in their lovemaking... something had changed. Oh... he was still gentle and the most gifted lover she'd ever had... well she hadn't had many and the others had been little more than boys her own age when she'd still been a young student... but he was amazing! And yet... all too often there was an intensity to his passion that almost frightened her. Afterwards... he'd cling to her as if she were only a vision who would fade away if he let go of her.

And then there was the way he looked at Richie when he thought she didn't see. There was wistfulness there as if Richie was also a dream that would vanish. He'd been insisting that the young man spend time with him in the gym.

"The Gathering is here Richie. If you remain a part of our lives... you will also be in danger."

"Me? Why's that Mac?"

"As a way to get to me. Remember Walter Reinhardt last year?"

"Yeah... "

"Then humor me, Richie. I want you to learn some self-defense."

"With a sword? From you?"

"No... hand to hand... from Charlie."

"You wipe the floor with that guy Mac!"

Duncan had smiled then. A real smile that showed the sense of humor he all too often these days seemed to have lost. "Well I have a few centuries on him. Make no mistake Richie... Charlie knows his stuff. You can learn a lot from him."

Duncan stretched beneath her. "That feels good."

"I'm glad you like it." Tessa slapped his back and climbed off, laughing when he snatched at her and pulled her back for a caress and a kiss. "Be good... I have to get ready. I have a buyer coming in this morning."

"One of your pieces?"

"Yes... the bronze."

Duncan lay back and arched his eyebrows. "Warrior in Repose," he teased and bounced slightly.

She slapped his arm. "Tease!" She swept across their bedroom to the shower. "Are you running this morning?" she asked as she tossed her golden locks over her shoulder. She turned on the water and felt the temperature.

"Yes," Duncan mumbled.

"Will I see you for lunch?"

Duncan sat up and swung his legs to the floor, leaning his elbows on his thighs and watching her remove her short blue silk nightgown as she prepared to enter the shower. He stared at her with that fear she saw so often in his eyes. "After I run... I'm going to the gym. Maybe a late lunch? A picnic on the roof?" He grinned.

Tessa had set some potted trees, covered with fairy-lights on the roof of the building when they'd bought this place... and created a small natural garden with a small, shallow _koi_ pool as their private getaway from it all. She'd hired a caretaker to take care of it while they'd been gone over the winter, but they'd yet to spend much time up there since returning a few months ago. Perhaps it was time to.

Tessa flashed Duncan a smile as she stepped into the steaming shower. "I'll look forward to it."

Duncan sat watching her through the glass bricks for several moments and then rose... pulling on running shorts, gray sweats, a sleeveless tee, and a zippered and hooded sweat-jacket. He was tying his sneakers when she stepped out... looking like a golden Aphrodite arising from the foam of the sea. Duncan smiled. "I'm taking Richie with me."

He kissed her, gazing at Tessa once more as if she were a dream... or a miracle. Then he shook it off and headed down the hall to pound on Richie's door. "Let's go!"

"Yeah... yeah... I'm up." He wasn't... but he soon would be.

-----

For her meeting, Tessa had selected a metallic blue suit that complemented both her blonde hair and her blue eyes. The mini-skirt showed off her long legs, and the jacket fitted her snugly. She was just checking her earrings and makeup in the antique mirror in the shop one last time, when the bell over the door sound. Tessa turned, already smiling... but her smile was frozen when she saw just whom it was that stood at the door.

"Amanda... Imagine that," she managed to say pleasantly. "Mac's not here."

Amanda, dark-haired, a bit exotic, and nearly as tall as Tessa smiled. "Yes. So I gather. Hello Tessa." She carefully removed her dark glasses and gazed about the store at the displays with interest. "Oh..." she laughed. "I remember this piece. It belonged to the Duchess of Exeter. She was one of MacLeod's... patrons," she finished lamely.

"So he told me," Tessa replied as she folded her arms before her. "You know for someone who hadn't seen Mac is what... seventy-two years... you keep turning up like a bad penny. What is this? Twice in six months?"

Amanda looked thoughtful. "Right... seventy... two... years." She smiled with a little shrug. "Well... I was in town... and I needed to see him."

"Let me guess," Tessa smirked as she approached the immortal and enjoyed towering over her slightly. "You're in town. Someone is after you. You need Mac's protection. No wait... that was Paris and it was a scam."

"We settled that. It wasn't a scam. I really did need his help."

Tessa arched an eyebrow.

"Will he be back soon?" Amanda said loosening the scarf about her neck and looking about to sit down.

Tessa sighed. She really needed to focus on the buyer who was coming. She did not need Amanda here. Besides, when Mac did get home, she didn't want anything to disturb the little picnic on the roof he'd suggested. Absently she fingered the gold chain about her neck and considered telling Amanda that she and Mac were married now. Instead, she turned and leaned over a drop-leaf desk to write down the address of the gym. She handed it to Amanda.

"He'll be here once he finishes with his run. You'll like the place. It's filled with sweaty men with bulging muscles."

"Ooh... sounds delightful," Amanda said as she took the address in her fingers and replaced her glasses. She paused at the door on her way out and turned to face Tessa. "Look... MacLeod's with you. I understand that. It's just... we have a long history. It's hard for me not to see you as just another of his mortal playmates. But he cares about you. I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

Tessa chuckled with a nod. "I know." After Amanda left... Tessa seriously considered a cigarette. She put the thought out of her mind though, when her prospective buyer, Mr. Ralph Benson of United Textile Industries arrived. She flashed her brightest smile and gave him her full attention. He was searching for just the right piece of artwork to grace the lobby of his new corporate headquarters.


	16. 16 The Return of Amanda, part 2

_Author's Note: Apologies for the delay in update. The holidays were more hectic than I could have forseen._

**16**

_**The Return of Amanda, part 2**_

**_DeSalvo's Gym_** was a crowded and busy place this morning. Richie groaned as Charlie flipped him over his shoulder and onto the mat with a solid thud. Richie _woofed_ out a gasp of air as he lay stunned looking up at Charlie's grinning face. He'd yet to have beaten MacLeod in their friendly matches… so Richie often found himself the "loser" to Charlie, and Charlie seemed to enjoy it.

"Man… I gotta tell ya," Richie began as he sat up and shook his head. Charlie extended a hand and pulled the young man to his feet. "… I don't think I'll ever get the hang of this stuff."

"Don't sweat it Richie. You show potential," Charlie laughed and then whistled as he glanced at the door.

Richie turned and stared at the drop-dead gorgeous brunette… and then realized who it was. "Uh oh," he mumbled.

"Know her?" Charlie asked as he punched Richie's arm. "A friend?"

"Not sure," Richie said, wondering how the immortal thief had found them. The last he'd seen her was in Paris last spring… Mac's old flame was coyly dressed in black stretch slacks that left little to the imagination and a rust-colored long-sleeved top that fitted her in all the right places. Damn but she was hot! Nervously he glanced around at the office and saw Mac lounging against the door… glaring at her.

Instead of immediately approaching Mac, Amanda grinned and stepped up to Richie… giving him a "kiss-kiss" motion as she greeted him. "Richie… it's been ages."

"A couple of months… Amanda," Richie said as he swallowed nervously.

"Seems longer," she replied off-handedly as she brushed her fingertips across his chin and focused next on Charlie, offering him a hand.

"Charlie DeSalvo," he said and Richie saw a slight blush on the man's face as he grinned at her. Richie could smell her perfume… something musky and no doubt expensive that drew him in like a bee to a flower. Brother did he have it bad!

"Amanda," she replied and moved on… seeming to glide over the floor toward Mac. "MacLeod…" she murmured as she reached him.

Mac nabbed an arm and turned her about as he half-led… half dragged her out of the gym. "Why am I not surprised," he muttered as he passed Richie and Charlie.

Charlie whistled. "Let me guess," he chuckled as he leaned toward the young man. "… Old girlfriend?"

"Old… something," Richie agreed with a laugh, and then shrugged as Charlie gave him an odd look.

Charlie shook his head. "Man oh man… how does he do it?" Someone yelled then from upstairs that the hot water was on the fritz again and Charlie moved off… yelling back at him. Mac had bought and installed a new one… but evidently it wasn't just the old heater that had created problems.

Glancing around to be certain that Charlie was occupied, Richie slunk outside. He found them bickering near Mac's car. Trouble was… it sounded like there were underlying meanings to everything they said… and didn't say.

"I was in town," Amanda said with an innocent shrug. "… And it wasn't polite not to let you know."

"Why don't I believe you?" Mac countered, folding his arms over his chest.

Amanda grinned and ran one hand over one of his biceps. "You've been working out."

Mac shrugged her off. "I'm with Tessa."

A strange faraway look entered Amanda's eyes and her mouth worked up and down as if she were struggling for the right words. "I know," she replied so quietly that Richie couldn't hear her words… but it was clear that's what she was saying. She shook it off and smiled at him.

Mac turned as well. "A little privacy… Rich."

"Yeah," the young man replied and stepped between them to snatch a jacket from the T-bird. "I… uh… needed this."

"So where are you staying?" Mac asked lamely. Richie glanced at them both and then slunk off a few steps. Mac was a big boy… and devoted to Tessa… but Amanda was devious. Surely he remembered how last spring Amanda had come to him… helpless and frightened… there was an immortal after her head. Yeah… some immortal! Zachary Blaine had been her old partner whom she'd framed for murder. She'd hoodwinked him into helping her with a caper by promising him the head of Duncan MacLeod. It was Blaine who'd lost his head though… to Amanda.

She gave Mac the address as she opened the car-door and climbed in… her every move calculated to raise a man's blood pressure. Mac slammed the door after her and then headed around the car. Richie grabbed at his arm but was shaken off.

"Mac… she's dangerous… Tessa will…"

"Tessa doesn't need to know… Richie," Mac replied pointedly.

Glancing over Mac's shoulder, Richie shook his head. "She's planning something, Mac."

"I know." Mac winked and patted him on the shoulder. "I'll be fine."

As Richie watched them drive off… he couldn't help but wonder if Mac really knew what he was doing. Amanda was trouble. He'd told Tessa and Richie that. So why was he falling for her again… or was he?

-----

The **_Seacouver Hotel_** had once been a first class hotel. Duncan had even stayed there occasionally when it was first built in the 1920's… but today it was a shadow of its former self. The carpet was still plush… but threadbare in places. The flocked wallpaper peeled open along previously invisible seams… and the woodwork was scratched and scuffed… definitely in need of a coat of paint.

Duncan took it in without a word… feeling strongly the passage of time that he only usually saw in the faces of mortal friends. An elderly bellman nodded pleasantly at them as they passed him in the lobby and entered the elevator. Only once they were alone did the argument continue. Somehow, Italy, Turkey, Bavaria, the circus, Cory Raines, and the Stone of Scone were all a part of the incriminations and slights. No wonder they could never make it work… not if they brought everything of their centuries relationship into every battle.

"Why did you lie to Tessa?" Amanda said with resignation as she leaned against the rear wall of the elevator." When Duncan looked at her quizzically, Amanda waved a hand to explain. "Last spring at the circus… you told her we hadn't seen one another in sixty-five years."

Duncan paled slightly. "That was the last time we were together… really together."

"Oh and 1950 London doesn't count?" she retorted.

"Amanda… that was different."

"How was it different?"

Duncan stared at her and shook his head. "I don't want Tessa to think of you as a threat."

Amanda laughed with disbelief. Then she sobered. "Darling… she knows I could be a threat. But you know differently. I have time on my side. I can wait."

"Then stay out of my life," he said gruffly.

Amanda shoved past him as the elevator door opened. Duncan followed her onto the floor and snatched her arm. "I didn't mean it that way."

"Didn't you?" she accused him as she faced him in the hall. "You never let me change. You always expect me to be manipulative and devious. In all our times together… you never let me open up or hope for anything more than an interlude. Have you ever stopped to think that I might want a real life!" Amanda's voice rose stridently and tears sparkled in her eyes. "Why don't you ever trust me?"

Duncan blinked and shook his head. Something was wrong here… He didn't want to hurt Amanda. He loved her in his own way… yet he was being purposely cruel to her. Memories that didn't quite seem like memories floated through his mind. She was a pain… and a nuisance… but she made him laugh with her little girl pout. Amanda was nearly three times as old as he was… and yet he always seemed older around her. She was like a spoiled but adored child. And for some reason… he wanted to kiss her.

"Hey you!"

The two immortals looked up as a heavy-set, balding man in a dark suit pointed at them. He drew a gun.

Ever the chivalrous one, Duncan pushed past Amanda to engage the assailant in a martial arts hold. His gun flew into the air… conking Duncan above his right eyebrow. The Highlander shook his head… vaguely aware that Amanda had likewise disarmed and subdued the man's partner. While their assailants were down… Duncan grabbed Amanda's hand and headed into her room and out the window. Swiftly they scaled the fire escape to the roof where, finding two heat exhaust outlets… he hid her inside one and cramped himself into the other. Outside he could hear them. Inwardly he prayed that they wouldn't give the units a second glance. If they were Watchers… they'd know how to kill them… permanently.

Visions of Watchers killing Immortals teased his mind. His head throbbed from the wound… and blood dripped. But the cut was already healing. In a few moments… no one would ever know it had happened. The gift of immortality. And while there were times he wished it were otherwise… he was what he was… immortal. But these two could kill him… and Amanda. A vision of a headless Amanda lying in a pool of blood seemed all too real… and all too imminent. He ground his teeth until the voices diminished and he knew that they were alone on the rooftop once more.

Gingerly he opened the compartment and edged out… carefully looking around to be certain. Once he knew that they were alone he opened the other compartment. "You were saying something about wanting to change your life? Who were those men? Why were they after you?"

"I swear I don't know," she said, but there was something about the way that she said it that made him suspicious. "On my mother's grave… I don't know who they are or why they're after me."

"You don't have a mother," he growled as he slammed the compartment shut and leaned against it. Tessa was not gonna like this.

-----


	17. 17 The Return of Amanda, part 3

**17**

_**The Return of Amanda, part 3**_

As he sipped on iced tea, Richie watched Amanda cross her long legs, slightly letting her foot pump up and down suggestively. He choked slightly on an ice cube. Red-faced he spat it back into his glass and cleared his throat. When he glanced at her, she was smiling. Meanwhile… the raised voices of Mac and Tessa still emanated from their bedroom.

Tessa was not happy.

"You brought her here? Why can't she stay at a hotel?"

"Men are after her!"

"Men are always after her! She's up to something!"

"They could be Watchers."

Silence. Richie could visualize Tessa pacing in anger and could smell the cigarette smoke. She didn't smoke often… only when she was upset… and he guessed this situation definitely qualified.

A few moments later Mac entered the kitchen area, nervously running a hand through his long dark hair. "Richie… can you take the couch tonight?" he finally asked.

Richie glanced back and forth between the innocent Amanda and the nervous Highlander. Slowly he grinned. "Sure Mac… _no problemo_!" He casually set his glass on the counter as he motioned with both hands. "I'll… uh… get my things… and… uh… some linens… and she can take my bed." He hurried to tidy up his room. Even at nineteen… his room tended to be a mess. Oh sure… he tried to keep it straight when Tessa asked… but somehow it always got away from him.

Hurriedly he gathered up his laundry… shoved it into a pillowcase and carried it to the washer. He could hear Mac trying to explain about Watcher's and tattoos to Amanda. It was her turn to pace angrily at the thought that these guys might have been watching her for centuries. Richie almost felt sorry for Mac… almost. He returned to his room… made the bed with fresh linens, shoved some discs and magazines under the bed and into his small closet, and ran a hand over the dusty nightstand. It felt sticky. He spit on the spot and wiped it with his sleeve.

Gathering up some dirty dishes, he returned them to the kitchen and dumped them into the sink. He ran warm water over them to let them soak and squeezed on some soap. Glancing at the immortals he noted that Mac was holding Amanda's right hand and lightly brushing a finger over her wrist… evidently tracing the odd Watcher tattoo on it. Richie could not help but feel the tension in the air as their eyes met for a moment. _Boy_, he thought, _they must have some history together_. He cleared his throat and both glanced up at him… guiltily dropping their hands. "Room's clean… or at least livable." He blushed.

Amanda stepped away from Mac with a teasing grin aimed at Richie. "Why thank you Richie. I do so appreciate this."

"I'll see about some dinner," Mac mumbled.

"Oh… don't mind me… I'll be quiet as a mouse," simpered Amanda as she waved on her way to Richie's room.

Mac glared after her. Richie swallowed a laugh as he crossed to the sofa and propped his feet on the coffee table, neatly snatching the remote. "And I'll just hang out in here," he offered as he surfed through a few channels until he found some dirt-bike racing on a sports channel. What he wouldn't give to be good enough to do that. He was aware only of the sounds of Mac in the kitchen as he checked cabinets and the fridge for supplies and ingredients for dinner. Evidently the private rooftop picnic with Tessa was off. Idly… Richie wondered if Tessa would even be joining them for dinner… and just where Mac would end up sleeping. One of the bikers landed crookedly on the path after launching his bike over a rise and ended up laying it on its side when he hit the dirt and skidded head over heels along the track. "Ouch!" he winced. "Bet that hurt."

From the kitchen he heard Mac say, "… and get your feet off the table!" Richie lowered his feet to the floor. Man oh man… it was gonna be a long evening. Maybe he should go out later and stop off to see Angie. Anything was better than this. However, as he grinned at Mac's replaying the various arguments of the day in pantomime as he cooked… Richie thought it might be entertaining to see how all this turned out.

-----

Dinner was a strained affair. Richie watched the other three stiffly go through the motions of civility all the while glaring at one another. Finishing quickly, he excused himself and decided that visit to Angie might be in order. On the way to her apartment, he chuckled to himself about immortals having the same problems as regular people. They just had it more intensely.

After Richie's departure, Amanda excused herself to her… to Richie's room… later emerging for a shower. Tessa curtly lent her some things… including a robe… and then retired to her and Mac's bedroom… firmly slamming the door. Mac sank onto the sofa in a funk as he tried to figure out what to do. On the one hand… he had made it clear to Amanda that nothing would happen… nothing. On the other hand… he'd assured Tessa of his love for her… on the other hand… Duncan looked at his two raised hands. He chuckled… guess he needed another one. This situation shouldn't be that hard. Tessa had dealt well with the situation of an old girlfriend when he'd brought Grace Chandel into their home to protect her. Why was it she was so incensed about Amanda staying with them for essentially the same reason?

And that caused him to consider the two men. Were they Watchers? Amanda kept assuring him that she had no idea what was going on, but Duncan remained skeptical. He knew her too well… she was always up to something. Granted she came through in a pinch… and granted she could in the end do the right thing… but Amanda was essentially a self-centered child who lived for the attention of every male around her. Duncan smirked as he recalled Richie's flustered words and motions around her. "Get 'em while they're young," he murmured softly and then glanced up to notice Tessa standing quietly in the doorway.

"The bed is cold," she said softly. "I miss you."

Duncan rose and crossed to her… gently taking her in his arms. "I'm sorry about this." He kissed her.

When she drew back, Tessa nodded. "I know. It can't be helped. If they are Watchers… she could be in _real_ danger. No one knows that better than me. Still… She's up to something, and I don't have to like her sleeping under my roof."

Duncan brushed a finger along her cheekbone and jawline. "I know that. I wouldn't have brought her here if I'd had another choice. At least this way… she's safe for the night. I'll take care of this tomorrow and then she's out of here. You are the woman I love… today and always." He kissed her again… relishing the taste of her and the responding feel of her in his arms. Maybe it wouldn't be a cold night after all.

Amanda waited until their bedroom door closed before fully opening the bathroom door and returning to Richie's room. As she crawled onto his single bed and clasped her hands about her knees, she bit her lip and tried to shake away the tears. Duncan's final words resounded in her mind like a strident gong. "_You are the woman I love… today and always_." Maybe it was time to truly move on with her life and cut him loose. It was just that he had always been there for her if she had needed him… but now he was truly lost to her. Well… she'd finish up her business tomorrow and be on her way. She'd just have to get used to looking over her shoulder for these Watchers. Well… she was thief and accustomed to avoiding notice by authorities… surely she could manage this. Turning out the lamp, she snuggled down into Richie's bed into an uneasy sleep.

Her dreams drifted over the events of Berlin in 1936… and the stolen currency plates that she still hoped to use… and MacLeod… as well as the events of their long winding history together. She could almost feel him with her… calling her devious… manipulative… and beautiful. Had he ever called her beautiful? She couldn't ever recall him saying that… not in almost four hundred years.

She was up before dawn and dressed… quietly slipping out of the apartment over the shop. Taking a twisted and convoluted path about town… Amanda checked again and again for Watching eyes. Seeing none, she grabbed coffee and a cheese Danish at a corner deli while she waited for the stores to open. If her information were correct… her money problems would soon be solved.

-----

Richie was pouring milk into his cereal bowl when he glanced up to see Mac and Tessa emerge from their room. From the expressions on their faces and their body language as their hands touched one another, Richie knew they'd made up.

Mac looked about oddly… like he did when an immortal was about. "Where's Amanda?" he suddenly barked as if Richie would know.

The teen shrugged. "In my room… I guess. I overslept a bit. I just got up…" he fumbled for words as Mac pushed past him and toward the young man's room at the rear of the apartment. Evidently he couldn't sense his old flame. He must have been right because his shoulders sagged as he leaned against the open door jamb and beat his head against it… pointedly ignoring Tessa's smug remark about "good riddance."

"Honest Mac… I didn't hear her leave."

Mac sighed with a small bitter laugh as he ran a hand through his tangled hair. "It's okay, Richie. Amanda's a big girl. She can look after herself."

"Wouldn't she have left a note?" Tessa asked.

Mac shook his head. "No… she likely just wants to get on with her business and get out of town." He straightened and there was a long pause before he continued, "… Unless?" With a strangled sound he raced down the stairs to the storefront. Flinging open the cabinet doors of the antique cupboard he used as a desk and extra cash register sometimes, he pulled open one of the drawers and then let out a long breath. He lifted his long leather wallet… the one he used for store business… from the drawer. "It's still here," he murmured and then opened it… counting the money. It was all there. Then his gaze passed over the credit cards he used for major transactions. One was missing. Idly he ran a finger over the slot where it normally rested. He smirked as he closed the wallet and reached for a phone.

"You're reporting her for stealing your credit card?" Richie asked.

"She didn't steal it… it's bread-crumbs. She wants me to know where she'll be," Mac replied and then turned as he began speaking to the operator about what he needed.

An hour later he walked slowly up Gibraltar Avenue… trying to sense her. She'd bought breakfast at a corner deli… a paper at a newsstand… and a pair of sunglasses from a street-vendor… expensive ones. As Duncan passed a pawnshop… he felt her… At least he thought it was her. He peered into the store through the window… but saw no one… and yet…

Putting on his sternest… most unyielding expression… Duncan entered the store and glanced around.

"MacLeod?" Amanda's voice drifted from the rear office. She appeared looking bright and innocent and confused. "How did you find me?"

"Credit card receipts… as if you didn't know." He grabbed her arm. "What's this about? Are you casing the place?"

"I would never do that! I just needed some information about something."

"About what?"

A car pulled up out front. Through the window… Duncan saw the two men from the hotel alight… guns drawn… heading into the store.

"Is there another way out?"

Amanda pointed. "That way."

In the alley, he motioned her to move in one direction while he headed in the other and hid behind a dumpster. As one man passed… he leaped out… cold-cocked the man with a swift chop to his neck, then checked his pulse… it was steady. He turned the man's hand over. No tattoo. He checked the other hand.

Amanda came up behind him, "What are you doing? Let's go?"

"Checking for tattoos," he said as he pulled out an ID wallet. He gasped. "FBI? I just attacked an agent of the FBI?" Rising he closed in on Amanda. "Just what the hell have you got me into? I want the truth!"

"MacLeod I swear I don't know."

"Amanda…" he growled as he grabbed her arm and headed back to his car. "I want to know exactly what you were after."

"I just needed some money," she said weakly. "You wanted me to go straight. So I did. But… I've run low on funds… so…" She bit her lip. "Remember Berlin?"

He started the car and headed for a park overlooking the bay. He wanted no interruptions.

-----


	18. 18 The Return of Amanda, part 4

**18**

_**The Return of Amanda, part 4**_

_Berlin 1936_

Somehow it had all come down to Berlin. Duncan was helping to smuggle scientists and other Germans out of the Third Reich, while maintaining an identity as a minor smuggler of artifacts. True… artifacts, paintings and other treasures were often smuggled out… as well as in. But Duncan could see the writing on the wall here… and worried that the present government was far more dangerous than his British contacts seemed to realize.

During his last trip to Paris he'd spoken with Darius about the situation…

"Something ugly is going on there beneath the surface old friend… and I don't trust this new German government."

Darius poured them both some tea as he mused over Duncan's assessment of Germany. "You may be right, my friend. I have many contacts both here and in Europe… and they say much the same. Another war is coming, I fear." He raised his teacup to his lips and blew thoughtfully on the tea. Steam curled up about his lips and his eyes had a faraway look.

"What do you know?" Duncan had asked him.

Darius had smiled and shrugged as he set the teacup down. "Know? I know nothing, Duncan."

"Are you having dreams again?"

Darius had looked at him strangely and then nodded. "I see a horror arising out of this conflict whose shadow will reach far into the future." He'd shaken his head at that point… and Duncan had been unable to get anything more out of him. When they'd parted company, Darius had told him_ to watch his head_. Now that Duncan thought about it… it was out of character. Darius usually wished him peace on his journeys.

Running into Amanda had been awkward for his cover… and yet having her in his arms once more… even if only for a dance… had made him feel alive all over. But he had no time for her… or for whatever she needed or wanted. Other lives were at stake. He'd brushed her off with a cold shoulder he hadn't truly felt… and had bid her _adieu_. He had a mission… and a man to smuggle out.

Amanda had shown up again at his hotel as he was leaving. He noted that in spite of her self-assured way… she was clearly worried about someone… or something. Again he gave the brush-off. He'd rebuild a relationship with her some other time. Right now… a man's life was at stake. In fact… many lives were likely at stake.

At the airport… everything came crashing down. His contact was a double agent and had brought in reinforcements to help with the capture. He might have succeeded if Amanda hadn't shown up again. She helped Duncan subdue the Nazis and had ended up flying the small prop plane as well as Duncan's man, out of Germany while he'd led further reinforcements on a wild cross-country chase. Amanda was desperate to get out of Germany. At the time… he hadn't known why.

-----

"Counterfeit plates," Duncan sputtered in exasperation. "Amanda… that's a federal offense. You could go to prison for a very long time."

"Well it was the only way I could get some ready cash to tide me over." Amanda gave him a shrug and that wide-eyed little innocent expression that seemed to say, "I have no idea what your problem about this could be."

"Amanda… we don't do well in prison."

"Well… I'd just arrange a death."

"Sometimes they do autopsies," Duncan added menacingly.

Amanda paled.

"And cremate the bodies."

Amanda began to tremble.

"Do I have your attention now?" he asked.

Amanda nodded. Just a little nod… one that indicated her sudden terror and realization of just where this caper might lead her. "Well I haven't done anything, yet. I was just looking to see if the dates could be changed. I'd put them back for a rainy day and…" She shrugged. "That rainy day arrived."

Duncan glared at her as he shook his head. "How did they know you were at the pawnshop?"

Stuttering slightly, Amanda shook her head. "I… I… I don't know."

"He called them. He had to have."

"Who?"

"Jacobson… the pawnbroker."

Amanda settled angrily back into the car's seat and crossed her arms. "Damn! It's getting so you can't trust anyone anymore." She smiled weakly and glanced at Duncan. "Are you really mad?"

"Furious," he said as he shook his head. He started the ignition.

"Where now?"

"Home. I want to figure out how to extricate _me_ from this fiasco."

"And me?"

"Don't push your luck," he growled as he attempted to neither chuckle nor smile. He wanted her to appreciate the gravity of the situation… and not blow it off as a minor bump in the road the way she'd done so many other transgressions.

He parked around back and they entered through the rear service entrance. As he called out for Tessa, he suddenly had a fear that something was wrong. As he entered the storefront, he saw a worried Tessa standing near one of the jewelry display cabinets. She glanced up at him fearfully.

The portly federal agent turned to greet him. "Mr. MacLeod and Miss Darrieux… or is it Montrose?" He flashed his ID. "I'm Agent Palance. I believe you have something that belongs to the U.S. government."

Behind him… a wide-eyed Tessa shook her head slightly.

After looking around the store and noting that Palance was evidently alone, he replied, "If you say so."

"Don't get smart, pretty-boy."

"How did you find me?" Duncan asked as he stepped closer.

Palance pulled out a videotape. "You were on tape at the store. She calls you by name. My superiors as well as the local authorities will be very interested in you and your little operation. I understand that your name keeps showing up on the local police blotter as somehow involved in an awful lot of cases." He fingered the tape and smirked at the Highlander.

Realization dawned in Duncan's eyes. "But you don't intend to tell the authorities anything. If so… you wouldn't be here alone."

Palance nodded and replaced the tape in his jacket. "Right you are. All I want are the plates."

"What plates?" Amanda asked innocently from behind Duncan.

"Stolen U.S. currency plates that are rumored to have been around since before the Second World War. They vanished but your inquiries into finding someone to change the dates on them got my notice. You give them to me… and this tape never sees the light of day." He patted his pocket.

"Oh?" Duncan asked.

"My partner followed you out of the store. He's dead."

Amanda looked aghast. "I didn't do it!"

"He was alive when we left him," Duncan protested.

"A known thief and a slightly shady businessman? Somehow I don't think your word will mean much."

"There's my word," Tessa added.

"You're his wife… you'd say anything to protect him. I'll exchange the tape for the plates. End of story."

Duncan nodded. "I'll need some time."

"Two hours… under Soldier's Bridge." Palance saluted with a smirk. "Don't be late." whistling confidently, he left the store.

"Why didn't you just grab him and destroy the tape?" Amanda sputtered.

Duncan glared as he looked around. "I've a better idea. Where's Richie?"

-----

Richie crouched in the trees above the bayside path under Soldier's Bridge. He knew just the spot. It was the same spot he'd used to spy on Mac and that fight with Slan Quince over a year ago. That's when he'd first been drawn into this world of immortals and quickenings and beheadings. Mac had offered him a roof, a job, and a chance for a future other than as a thief if he kept his mouth shut about what he'd seen. He'd done so at first because it had seemed the smart thing to do. Now… he stayed with Mac and Tessa because they were like the family he'd never had.

He thought of them as a big brother and big sister. He'd come to care about them… love them… want to protect them. Now he had another chance to save them as they'd saved him. He looked through the lens of the video cam… making certain to focus on Palance… and not on Mac and Amanda until they faced the water. Mac had told him that he doubted that Palance would keep his word. He'd kill them, as surely as he'd killed his partner… and… he'd likely arrange a little accident for Tessa. That Duncan would not allow.

"We need to catch him as he thinks he's caught us," Mac had told him.

When the report of the gunshots sounded, Richie still flinched. He almost stopped filming as both Mac and Amanda fell forward into the cold Seacouver Bay. Palance looked about, holstered his gun, re-wrapped the coveted currency plates, and strolled off. It was nearly over.

By the time Richie had made his way down to the path, a dripping wet but revived and very much alive Mac and Amanda were resting on the stones at the water's edge. Amanda looked very comfortable in Mac's embrace.

"Did you get it?" Mac asked.

Richie grinned and nodded.

Later he delivered the tape and made an anonymous phone call from a payphone to police. Now it was a matter of waiting.

-----

The bell over the storefront door jingled as Randi McFarland strolled in. "Okay… spill it MacLeod."

Duncan put his hands in his trouser pockets and looked at her quizzically. "Spill what?"

Randi paced. "My sources say a federal agent was arrested earlier today for counterfeiting and murder. He's clammed up… but he did mention your name."

"My name?"

Randi slouched to one side and pulled out a small tape recorder. "Word is your dead… again. Any comments?" She held the machine out to him and glanced as Tessa walked over.

"Miss McFarland. Are you still rooting around in garbage trying to make a name for yourself?"

Randi glowered at her. "I've seen the tape of the murder MacLeod. It sure looks like you and some dark-haired chick."

Tessa ran fingers through her long golden hair, slowly twisting one curl around a finger as she looked bemusedly at Randi.

Duncan took her arm. "Obviously I'm not dead, Miss McFarland." He ushered her out of the store.

"I'm gonna keep digging into your past MacLeod," she called after him as he closed the door. "I'm gonna find the answer if it kills me."

Duncan paused and then said softly, "Let's hope it doesn't. Good day Miss McFarland." Then he shut the door firmly and let out a long breath. Turning he winked at Tessa. "You were marvelous… especially the hair twisting movement."

"But Mac… what if he talks… gives the police your name. What happens then?"

"My face wasn't on that tape. It would be my word of not knowing anything about this to his. We destroyed the other tape… the one of Amanda and me in the pawnshop."

"What about the pawnbroker… Mr. Jacobson? What if he comes forward?"

"I don't think he will." Mac smiled and kissed her.

"How can you be so sure?"

Duncan smiled. "I just am." He glanced up as Amanda entered from the living quarters. "Ready to go?"

"I suppose," she said with a smile. "After all… it wouldn't be good for either of us to be seen together."

Tessa smirked. "No… it wouldn't."

Amanda's face reflected unease. "I'm truly sorry I involved you in this Tessa… you and MacLeod… and Richie. I should have known better."

"Yes… you should have. So where to now?"

"Well… I'm short of cash," Amanda began as she lay a finger along her cheek.

Duncan laughed as he took her arm and steered to the back of the store. "I may have enough for a bus ticket to Saginaw."

"A bus? Surely you don't mean a…" Amanda's voice drifted away. She shuddered and then nodded. "A bus trip cross-country. Sounds peachy."

"Don't pick too many pockets," Tessa called after them as they left. She glanced over to see Richie watching her with amusement. "What?"

"You're taking all of this awfully well."

Tessa crossed her arms and nodded. "He married me Richie. He didn't have to… but he did. I know he loves her too. But it's not the same. She could wait a thousand years for him… but he'll never marry her… never." She pivoted and strode to her studio.

Richie nodded after her and then glanced at the closed rear door. "But I would… if she'd ever have me. Fat chance… Ryan," he laughed and picked up a feather duster. After all… what would a classy thousand-year-old immortal see in a street kid from Seacouver? But still… maybe in a few years… when he was older… he could get her attention. After all… he knew a few things about breaking and entering. He punched on the CD player and rocked to the beat as he dusted antiques.


	19. 19 Promises to Keep, part 1

**Author'sNote: **_Okay... I've finished this next little piece and am putting the first section of it up tonight. This piece goes further afield than previous ones and is not so much a re-interpretation of an episode as a chance to show what is happening in the time-line with other continuing characters, and a chance to fill in background and motive for other characters. I've tried to postulate what really happened in the series as well as small changes based on Duncan's choices that changed things in his winning the prize. Crossing my fingers and hoping this works.> Other than in this first section... all characters are from canon and names and information about them is based on that. As for this first section... well I had to create some people... and you'll see why._ elle

* * *

**19**

_**Promises to Keep, part 1**_

**Somalia:**

The able-bodied seaman known as Jacques LeMer pushed the peaked cap back from his brow and wiped the perspiration on it as he stared at the busy port of Mogadishu. It was still early morning… but the heat was already rising. He leaned on the railing of the steamer as he eyed the busy dockworkers and listened to the cadence of their language and the rhythm of their songs.

They were tall, thin, dark-skinned, scantily clad men who shifted the bales and crates across the deck. He saw little in the way of automation. Manual labor was still the cheapest and most efficient means of labor in this undeveloped third world country. In many ways… it hearkened back to a world and time that even after nearly two thousand years he could still clearly recall.

With any luck at all… he could lose himself here. The Watchers would never find him… at least not for a while if he maintained a low profile.

At a call from the quarterdeck, he turned to approach the paymaster's table and quietly signed for his pay.

"You're a good worker LeMer. Are you certain I can't convince you to stay."

Jacques shrugged. "Perhaps another time. I've always wanted to see Africa."

Captain Rimbaud laughed derisively. "Ahh… Africa. The cesspool of the modern world. It smells. Five miles off the coast we can smell the rot. Governments rise and fall depending on alliances… and tribal warfare still runs rampant. A dangerous place for a Westerner, LeMer. Besides…" He looked around. "You don't dare drink the water." He winked conspiratorially.

Jacques smiled. "I shall endeavor to remember that advice. Nevertheless… I depart here." He shouldered his canvas seabag and tipped his hat to the other men… declining to join them at a nearby sailor's bar for drinks and made his way down the gangplank. Pausing a moment when he felt _terra firma_ once more under his feet after several months at sea… he staggered slightly, paused and then walked away confidently until he was lost among the milling crowds in the crowded dusty streets. Just one more man looking for anonymity in a land where anonymity was the norm.

Half an hour later he checked in at small two-story, whitewashed hotel with a wrought iron verandah running the length of the second story. The desk clerk barely gave him a second look and Jacques made certain not to overpay for his two-night's stay… nor let the clerk see his roll of money from his pay. He carried his seabag up himself and closed the door to his room… shooting the small bolt. It wouldn't really keep anyone out… but he supposed it was the best he'd have for now.

Tossing the seabag on the bed he crossed to the slatted doors and opened them… stepping out onto the verandah, where he was pleasantly surprised that he could see the ocean from here. Certainly it was but a small strip of aquamarine between the squat ugly buildings, the palm trees, and the hard blue sky from which beat an unmerciful sun. Removing his cap, Jacques wiped his brow and surveyed his surroundings. It was everything Captain Rimbaud had said it was… but it was where he'd come to fulfill a promise he'd made centuries ago.

He turned back into the room and closed the verandah doors to stand beneath the slowly moving electric ceiling fan. It was barely enough to keep a slight breeze moving in here… but it would have to do. Unlocking his seabag… Jacques pulled out his kit and carried it to the small porcelain sink where he ran what passed for hot water. He turned on the small light over the dull mirror and stared at the bearded face that stared back.

It was a face he hardly knew. He'd let his beard grow while he'd been aboard the cargo ship. He'd worked the hardest labor in the engine room or wherever he'd been assigned on deck without a complaint. He needed the physical labor. It was the fastest way to begin getting back into fighting shape. At that he removed his sweat-drenched shirt and soaped up his chin as he began to scrape at the beard with the straight razor. It wasn't that he wanted to fight… but out here… he'd known it would be a necessity. He'd been out of the game too long… and he needed time to get back into it. He'd been willing to die… but when the moment came… he'd found he'd been unready to die. He still had promises to keep. He wiped the razor on a towel and scraped again. A beard was a danger in battle… or so he'd always thought. That and long hair gave an opponent a handhold. He'd take care of both before leaving.

Shirtless as he shaved, he took note of the muscle definition returning to his form. Both the added muscle and the tan from working shirtless on deck aboard the ship some days had done much to alter his form. There was little about him now of the ascetic scholar. Indeed, he'd brought nothing with him from that old life… "Just as well," he snorted as he scraped his other cheek. He'd leave the mustache. With a little peroxide to lighten both it and his hair… he should look different enough to pass unnoticed by any Watcher in the streets of this city. After all… he was supposed to be dead.

Jacques lifted the towel and wiped away the last of the soap… studying the effect of the mustache. It made him look older. Well… that was the idea. He pulled out the peroxide bottle and went to work rubbing and combing the solution into his hair and mustache until the effect was a bleached blonde. Jacques smiled. He looked very Nordic.

He wiped down with the washcloth and soap and then toweled off. Pulling the crisp new clothes he'd bought two ports ago while ashore and never opened… he pulled out pins and unfolded them. The light cotton shirt was a pale blue. It would make him seem even more tan than he was… and would heighten his blue eyes. He buttoned it part of the way up, already aware that he was sweating again.

Next he pulled on the lightweight khaki slacks, the thin socks and sturdy boots. It wouldn't do to be wearing poor footwear in case he met a challenge. He double-tied the laces and then set about fixing a new wallet with the alternate identification and papers. The lightweight duster coat he shook in the air… hoping the wrinkles would fall out. He ran a finger appreciatively over the microfiber texture and then slipped it on. He'd prepared a holder for the sturdy short sword he'd brought. It wasn't as good as the one he'd once used… but it would do, especially for one so long without a sword in his hands. Then he pulled a blue nylon bag with an attached shoulder strap out of the seabag, folded the larger duffel and stuffed it into the nylon bag with the remains of this last life. He swept up the shaving remains from the sink and his kit items and stuffed them into the bag as well. Then he faced the mirror.

The man who looked back at him was both a stranger and oddly familiar. Without the beard… he was once more himself… but the mustache, clothes, and change of hair color were enough of a change… so that anyone who didn't know him well would fail to realize who he was. But then… that was the idea. He put the wide-brimmed Panama hat on his head and ran his fingers along the brim. Then he pulled the wire-rimmed glasses from the small case and adjusted them across the bridge of his nose. He was ready to face the world once more.

He took one more look around the hot hotel room to be certain he'd left nothing behind… and then slipped out the door, having left the key on the empty bureau, and descended the rear flight of stairs that led into the alleyway. Jacques LeMer had ceased to exist. All he had to do now… was destroy the bag on his shoulder… and its contents.

-----

Two hours later, the unencumbered man, now carrying only a long coat over his arms hired a driver to take him in country. As they bounced along the rutted dirt road in the open Jeep the driver kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation, to which his passenger merely listened, nodding or shaking his head occasionally in answer to a question, but otherwise remaining silent.

"In this country," the driver asked as they passed into a rising rocky area, "why carry a coat?"

His passenger shrugged.

"Old habit?"

The westerner nodded with a smile.

"You won't need it here. You'll find that out. It won't even protect you from rain. It rains very hard here when the rainy season comes. Everything is soaked. Why I remember the rainy season that…"

His passenger began to tune the driver's words out as he considered his destination. He'd seen photographs of it. He'd sent money here for years… but he'd never come himself and he had no idea how welcome he'd be. But he'd once promised to come if his life ever changed… and so he was here. He'd once given Grace Chandel some literature about the place and suggested that her talents might be of service here. But to his knowledge… she'd never come. Perhaps her fears of Carlo Sendaro tracking her down had kept her from here. But with Sendaro dead now… perhaps she would come. He hoped so. It would be nice to see her.

"… and the waters rose so fast that the entire village was washed away. Westerners wonder that we don't make sturdier homes in country… but I tell you… in the face of such a flood… nothing stands. Better it is something that can be easily and cheaply rebuilt than…"

As the road continued to rise along the twisting route to climb the mountain, the driver's words continued. His passenger glanced into the depths of the ravines as the Jeep careened back and forth up the road. The driver apparently had no fear of death. The passenger smiled. Neither did he. He settled comfortably into his seat… _sans_ seatbelt… as the Jeep made a swift turn and bounced along at a swift rate of speed. Idly he wondered if the driver were driving this way to frighten him or if this were the norm. Glancing at the man's unconcern for speed, safety, or passenger… he decided it was the norm.

The road leveled off near the mountaintop and headed toward a settlement of western style buildings huddled on the plateau against the rising heights of the mountain. Already, he could hear the sounds of children's laughter.

The Jeep braked suddenly in an open compound and he lurched forward as it stopped. Glancing up he saw a thin white-haired man wearing a khaki campshirt and shorts approach. The man beamed at him.

"I'm Robert Sanderson." He held out a hand in welcome and peered at the face beneath the Panama hat. "And unless I'm wrong… you're Dieter Lindenauer."

"Yes," Dieter said as he alighted from the Jeep to shake Sanderson's hand. "I thought it was about time to see the hospital and orphanage named for me and which I've supported these many years.

"Well, the foundation you and your family have set up for this place has made a real difference in the lives of these children."

"One does what one can. None of us can change the world… but perhaps a small group of us can change the lives of a few."

"Wise words indeed." Sanderson clapped him on the shoulder and was looking to see if Lindenauer had any luggage (he didn't) when a spritely gray-haired woman with a bright smile and a child clinging to each hand walked up.

Sanderson gestured toward her. "This is my wife Sophia and two of our young charges. Sophie… my dear… Dieter Lindenauer."

"Dr. Lindenauer," Sophia Sanderson said releasing the clasp of one Somali child to grasp his. "This is indeed an honor. Your cousin didn't mention you were coming."

"Really? I'd told her last time she was home that I might be coming." Dieter felt the tingle of an immortal presence and glanced up the rough-hewn steps toward a wide bungalow that he knew housed the patients in the hospital. At the top of the stairs he saw her and gave a slight shrug.

Slowly she descended the steps, and in her movements he saw the teachings of the aristocratic grandmother who'd raised her in a day and age so long ago. Her blonde hair was pulled back and up in a twist and he noted she was dressed in light khaki much like the Sandersons. Around her neck was a stethoscope.

She stopped a few feet away with a look of surprise on her face.

Dieter shrugged, his hands clasped beneath the coat lying over them. "I said if things changed I would come. Things changed."

Tears sparkled in her eyes as she moved forward for an embrace. "I'm so glad your here," she whispered.

"So am I," Dieter replied. "So am I."

As arm in arm they climbed the steps to the hospital, Sophia Sanderson leaned closely to her husband. "That embrace seemed rather familiar, don't you think?"

Robert shrugged with a chuckle. He wanted to feed the driver and get him on his way. He also wanted to talk to the man about taking some mail and reports back to Mogadishu. "You worry too much Sophie. They're cousins. Distantly related cousins I believe. It's not as if they were siblings."

"I suppose." She smiled at the two children and swung her hands back and forth with theirs. "I think it's story-time… "

The children jumped up and down eagerly as she led them away to join the others.

-----

Dieter could see the sun setting like a great fiery red ball in the western sky several hours later. He knew that the heavy tropical night would descend swiftly and that the hospital grounds would be blanketed in an unrepentant blackness in minutes. Only the flickering lights of the bungalows would offer any relief from the darkness.

He leaned on the banister and surveyed the encampment as it turned red in the fading rays of the sun and then slowly faded away in the night. He'd spent the past few hours with Rachel on her rounds. He'd spoken and examined some of the children and met several of the local people who served as nurses and orderlies about the place. One of the aspects of the Lindenauer Foundation, as he'd set it up, was that Western involvement be kept to a minimum and that locals be trained and educated to eventually take over the place. It was a formula that had worked in other places and with other hospitals and schools over the past century and a half. This was the fifth Lindenauer Hospital. When it was self-sufficient and there were enough local people trained as doctors and teachers, Rachel would move on… re-invent herself and select another area to start over.

He sensed her emerge from the hospital ward and glanced over as she approached and leaned with her back against the banister. "Not that I'm not thrilled to see you, old friend… but why? What changed?"

Dieter rubbed a finger along a small crack in the wood. "Death came for me and I decided I wasn't ready."

"Really?" She chuckled. "And after all those lectures to me about finding ways to stop the game… helping mankind… saving lives…"

"That hasn't changed."

"Oh? But that is a sword hidden in that coat you carry."

"For defense while traveling. I won't need it here… will I?"

"Not as long as it stays quiet. There's always the danger of civil war or tribal coups."

"I also needed a quiet place to practice. I'm rather rusty."

"And you think I can help?"

"You've kept your hand in."

Rachel laughed. "Well… yes… I've had to, out here in the world. But let's face it. I'm not that good."

"You're likely better than I am at this point. And somehow… I don't think you'll take my head."

"No," she replied with a wistful tone. "I wouldn't." Slipping an arm into his she nodded toward the brightly-lit messhall one level below. "Come on… let's eat. And later… I guess we'll figure out where you can sleep."

"Oh?" Dieter said teasingly.

Rachel laughed. "Now that sounds strangely scandalous coming from you Darius."

"Dieter… Darius is dead."

"Dieter," she replied with a nod. "I won't forget."

"And by the way… why Rachel in this life? That's a bit dangerous."

She shrugged. "Maybe I was tired of being so many other people. Maybe I just wanted to be me again… at least for this life."

"Then Rachel it is… although I rather liked Uma."

She slapped his arm and laughed as they reached the messhall's warm glow of welcome and joy and felt wrapped in friendship among the workers and children of this island of peace in the midst of a war-torn land.


	20. 20 Promises to Keep, part 2

**20**

_**Promises to Keep, part 2**_

**Paris:**

Marcus Constantine opened the telegram with the antique letter opener and perused it. On the far side of his curator's desk, his assistant Victor Benedietti shifted nervously and cleared his throat. "Well… " the young man asked, "… did we get it?"

Marcus refolded the telegram from the museum's agent in Cairo with a slight nod. He replaced the message in the envelope and tossed it aside as if it were nothing. "Yes. The Egyptian government has agreed to send the artifacts from the dig to Paris for us to catalogue and display."

"Including Nefertiri's sarcophagus?"

Marcus' heart seemed to skip a beat as Victor mentioned her name. Nevertheless he shrugged as if it held no meaning for him. "I suppose. Nefertiri is likely a myth. If it is hers though… it might offer additional information about her queen. Honestly Victor… I fail to see why she interests you so much."

His assistant shook his head nervously. "She doesn't… it's just that… well… an unopened sarcophagus would be a coup for the museum. Nothing more."

Marcus grunted and then stood. "Well I'm off for the night. Lock up after me."

"Home to Angela?" his assistant asked.

"Yes," Marcus murmured, although in fact, he had a brief stop to make before reaching home. He wanted to see his old friend Severnus… or Pierson as he called himself now. "A quiet evening at home with my lovely wife is what life is all about. Really Victor… you should get out more and meet someone. You are far too dedicated to your work."

Victor nodded non-committedly with a shrug. "I like my job," he said with a touch of menace that Marcus found odd in the young man. "I want to make a difference."

Marcus laughed as he pulled on his coat. "Yes. Making certain the next generation learns from the past is a worthy goal. Well… I'll see you in the morning." He slapped his assistant's arm and hurriedly left the museum, passing through the unfinished Egyptian exhibit and noting that it was coming along nicely. It was a cover… of course… a reason to bring Nefertiri here… and free her from her airless prison. For two thousand years he'd searched for her tomb… sometimes in person… sometimes by delegate… and at last he'd found it. Now… perhaps… once she arrived… he could begin to repay her or make the past up to her… not as a lover this time… that time was past… but as a friend. He stepped out into the sleet of the Paris night and smiled as the city lit up. It was beautiful here. It was almost as beautiful as Rome. He beeped to unlock his car and climbed in. His side-trip shouldn't take long… but he wanted Severnus' help when Nefertiri arrived. After all… it wasn't as if he could take her home to meet Angela. No… that wouldn't do at all. Chuckling… he drove off.

Behind him in the museum, Victor Benedietti hurried to lock up. Technically he ought to call in that Constantine had left the museum… but the man was like clockwork. He seldom varied his routine. Yet despite his years as a humble historian first in Rome and now in Paris the past ten years, Benedietti was certain he was only biding his time.

His Watcher friend James Horton had assured him that it was simply a matter of time before Constantine reverted to form. "They are all killers, Victor," Horton had told him when he'd recruited him to his Special Assignments task force last year. "They live to kill one another. If the game ends… a monster will have the power to rule all mankind. We cannot allow this."

So Benedietti continued to Watch Constantine and make his regular reports to Ian Bancroft, head of the Western Europe Bureau… and his unofficial ones to James Horton's group. Trouble was… Horton had personally gone after Darius last spring feeling that an immortal posing as a priest was the greatest of all crimes against humanity and had managed to get himself and his task force at least partially unmasked.

Word was that Duncan MacLeod had discovered the Watchers in the wake of Darius' disappearance or death… and had tracked him to Seacouver and exposed him. Benedietti didn't have all of the details, only that he was reporting unofficially to Martin Isaacs now. He'd also been told by Isaacs to maintain a low profile. "We'll be back. But Horton has to make some arrangements and manage to fall off the grid. He's promised we will be ridding the world of these monsters again very soon."

So rather than call for backup, Benedietti was quickly finishing up his chores at the museum and locking up for the night. Then he'd swing by Constantine's to be certain he was there, and then home for the night to his apartment. Meanwhile, he salivated at the thought of Nefertiri's arrival. The three thousand year old immortal meant a lot to Constantine… but if he could steal the sarcophagus before she arrived… and kill her… he felt certain that Constantine would then be an easy target for the Hunter squad. He would just have to make certain that the old Roman was alone when he found the headless body of his ancient lover. The thought of actually killing an immortal with his own hands had given him an erection. Oh yes… he so looked forward to the task. Benedietti began to breathe evenly to regain control of his body. Once Constantine and his lover were dead, then he'd have time for personal relaxation… but not until then.

Finished, he turned off the last of the lights, set the security system, said farewell to the night guard, and locked up. He turned the collar of his wool coat up as he crossed the empty parking lot to reach his car. After starting the ignition, he sat for a few minutes blowing on his cold hands as it warmed up. Victor Benedietti was in no hurry.

-----

Within the dark smoky interior of the pub Constantine paused momentarily at the door to get his bearings. He could feel the heavy thrum of Severnus on his senses and wondered again just how old the man was. Although he appeared a rather slight and stoop-shouldered young man… in this life masquerading as some sort of grad student doing his doctorate on ancient civilizations or something… Severnus… or Pierson… was much more. Constantine could recall seeing him duel in the gladiatorial arena on several occasions and he knew the man to be a devious and skilled warrior.

Pierson was playing darts in a back corner and met Constantine's gaze. Quickly he excused himself to his friends and joined the Roman at the bar… where he ordered a beer. Constantine chuckled. Personally he had never developed a taste for the vile brew. "Brandy!" he ordered and waited.

"What's up?" Pierson asked quietly. He was a hard man to find sometimes. After all, immortals didn't always do well in groups… but the immortal seemed to have a real avoidance these days of being in the company of any other immortal… even an old friend.

"I got word this evening. The Egyptians are shipping the artifacts to me in the next few months."

"And?" Pierson stared into the mirror giving no sign that he and Constantine were talking. Marcus did the same.

"The sarcophagus will be arriving in February."

"So?"

Marcus chuckled. "I could use some help. I can't take her home to Angela."

Pierson chuckled as he set his beer down on the counter. "True… immortal lovers turning up can be such pain." For a moment he seemed to be reflecting on something that had once occurred to him. Then the moment passed. "What do you expect me to do?"

"Help me acclimate her to the present."

Pierson ran his slender fingers around the rim of his beer stein and thoughtfully lifted it. "I'll think about it. I have a feeling she'll be out for blood. I don't want to be the sacrificial lamb."

"You forget… I've seen you fight."

"That was centuries ago. I don't do that anymore."

"Nor do I," Marcus said with a laugh. "Nor do I."

"Adam!"

Both men turned toward the attractive young woman who'd apparently just arrived. She stuffed her gloves into her coat pockets and brushed the snow from her hair. She seemed surprised to see Marcus. "Who's your friend?"

Pierson shifted on the barstool like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. "This is Marcus Constantine of the Paris History Museum. Marc… Jillian O'Hara, a colleague of mine."

"Do you also study ancient civilizations Miss O'Hara?" Marcus asked as he shook her hand.

She blushed. "Actually my field of study is a little more recent."

Marcus withdrew his hand and gave her a pleasant smile as he pulled on his gloves. "I have to be going. Come see me again at the museum Pierson, especially after I get the new Egyptian exhibits up. I'd appreciate your expertise on getting everything just right."

Pierson shrugged with beer stein in hand. "I'll try."

Marcus left. Angela would be wondering where he was. He didn't like to keep her waiting. She worried so about him being out at night… but sometimes it couldn't be helped.

As Marcus Constantine exited the pub, Jillian O'Hara snatched at Adam's arm. "Are you insane? You know it's not right to have personal relationships with immortals."

Adam gulped the beer and shrugged. "What could I do? He showed up and since I'd gone to see him a few months back when I was tracking down a clue about Methos in Rome… he recognized me and started talking."

"You should report it nevertheless."

"Report what? A chance encounter that lasted minutes? I think not." He sipped his beer and ordered a one for Jillian. "So how's Bancroft doing?"

"Haven't you heard? He resigned last week and asked for re-assignment. I think he's felt guilty that Darius vanished or was killed on his watch. There's been no sign of him since Horton and his team went after him. Ian thinks he's dead."

"He might be."

Jillian shook her head. "You say that so casually. I don't think I can be so unfeeling toward them. They _are _people… maybe not like us… but they have the same fears and desires we all have."

Adam turned on the barstool and leaned back against the bar. He smiled. "You have a good heart Jillian."

Jillian blushed. "I just believe that all living creatures deserve to live. How awful it must be for someone to discover they're _immortal_," she whispered the last word, "and then to discover that to remain so… they have to _kill_ others."

Adam looked at her thoughtfully. "You have a vivid imagination."

"Look at my assignment. One day she's a gifted artist and the next she's… you know."

Adam motioned for another beer as he nodded thoughtfully. "The change for them must be shattering."

"My point exactly. So… dinner?" Jillian laughed.

Adam nodded. "I'll get us a table." While they waited he regarded the young woman with more than a friendly gaze. It had been one hundred and fifty years… give or take… since his last long term relationship with a mortal woman. It hurt so when they died… or turned against him when they realized he wasn't growing older or couldn't give them children. Usually when that happened… he arranged his own death and moved on. But Jillian might be different. After all… she already knew about immortals… but… and it was a big but… would she… could she keep his secret? He wasn't certain he wanted to chance his continued existence on letting her in on even part of his secret. After all… even though scuttlebutt around the organization had been that James Horton was the ring-leader of the Watchers who had begun killing immortals and that he and his cohorts had been weeded out… Adam wasn't too certain. No… it was best to stay quietly on the outskirts… his true identity known to only a handful of immortals… and his modern one known to fewer.

He'd been a bit non-plussed that day in Darius' church about a year ago when Constantine had shown up for a weekly chess match with the priest and he'd been there… arguing with Darius. The man exasperated him! He'd been trying to warn him that it was past time to move on. It was an old argument and one Darius had stubbornly refuse to change his position on.

"Here I am… here I remain."

"One day men will come to realize what you are. I really don't see how it is that for fourteen hundred years they seem to fail to realize you are the same man and always here."

"Have a little faith old friend." Darius had smiled indulgently as if he were the elder of the two. Sometimes… he did seem that way. But Adam knew different. Appearances could be deceiving… especially among immortals.

It was then that Constantine had arrived and recognized him as an at least two thousand year old immortal he'd known in Rome. Darius… who knew who he was… had said nothing to apprise Constantine that his perception was wrong.

Was Darius dead? According to reports, Horton admitted killing immortals, although he'd failed to give specifics. Yet he'd denied killing Darius. Did that mean the old Goth was still out there? And if so… where?

The hostess called his name and Adam Pierson gently took Jillian's arm as they followed her to a table. He'd decide about chancing an intimate relationship with her another time. Tonight… he wanted only to get this meal over with and get back to his flat to do some research. He had a few thoughts about where Darius… if he were alive… might have gone. After all… he'd promised to look after him. And Adam Pierson liked to keep his word… at least to the handful of immortals who knew he had once been Methos… one of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse… and likely the oldest of all the immortals who still walked this earth.


	21. 21 Promises to Keep, part 3

**Author's Note: **_By the way. I posted an original short story I wrote based on a concept from a novel I've been working on for several years, over at fictionpress, the sister site to fanfiction. It's called **A Cacophany of Stone** and is under my same pen-name... ellenora. It's in the Science Fiction section. Please stop by and read and review. I'd appreciate the input. _elle

* * *

**21**

_**Promises to Keep, part 3**_

**Chicago, IL:**

The afternoon sun shone weakly in the winter sky. Earlier… the day had been overcast, but it had finally broken through an hour ago. Unfortunately… it didn't really seem to warm anything up. If anything… it seemed colder. Perhaps a cold front was moving in.

James Horton sat on the bench on the grounds of Holy Name Cathedral and watched tourists mill about the area. He still flinched occasionally from the healing sword wound in his chest. That he'd survived MacLeod's assassination attempt only made him more focused on the rightness of his mission. The immortals were an evil plague on mankind. Why could his brother-in-law Joseph Dawson not see it? Why could the tribunal not understand? They'd booted him out… as well as several of his closest confidants. Horton had already begun organizing a separate group and he still had a few moles inside Watchers to feed him information. One of them was actually keeping an eye on him as per the orders of the tribunal. Horton nearly laughed at their blindness. They had no idea how far his reach into the rank and file had been. But they would.

One of them had sent him information regarding a certain immortal that likely hated Duncan MacLeod at least as much as Horton did. The Englishman smiled. He could use that for an advantage over the man… and get his revenge on MacLeod at the same time. But first he had to meet the man and play nice. He'd offer him a deal… and feed his ego and his bloodlust. They'd start slowly and build. Before long… they'd have MacLeod right where they wanted him. And both the Highlander and his whore would die. Horton leered at that thought. He'd slit her throat right before MacLeod's eyes. And then…

"James Horton?" said a cultured voice.

Horton glanced up at the tall elegantly dressed black man whose shadow fell across him and caused him to shiver momentarily.

"Ah… Xavier St. Cloud… I presume."

"And who exactly are you?" St. Cloud looked around nervously. They were on Holy Ground and he was clearly uncomfortable being where he couldn't fight back against a mortal. He'd expected another immortal to be the sender of the message that had arrived at his apartment yesterday, especially as the place of the meeting was church property.

"Relax Mr. St. Cloud… I'm your new best friend."

St. Cloud snorted. Gesturing with one hand he derisively snorted. "I choose my own friends."

"Ah… but I can give you the head of Duncan MacLeod."

"Really? Now you've said something interesting. Yet… why would I want this man's head?"

"Oh come now Mr. St. Cloud. Don't you want him to pay for taking your hand?" Horton smiled knowingly at the Moor.

St. Cloud pulled the hook out of his enlarged coat pocket and clicked it thoughtfully. "How do you know about that?"

"Oh come now Xavier… may I call you Xavier… relax. I know many things." Horton patted the seat on the bench beside him. "Have a seat so we can talk." Inwardly he wanted to flinch at the nearness of the monster… yet outwardly he remained calm and smooth. After all… he wanted MacLeod to suffer and die… and he'd need help to accomplish that. He also wanted to hurt the Watchers… especially Dawson… and for that… he needed immortals to die. But not by mortal hands… by immortal ones. The more immortals who died… the fewer there were. The Watchers would see their reason for existence slowly dwindle away. "He's rather handicapped you in the game… wouldn't you like to even the playing field?"

St. Cloud smoothly settled on the bench. "Revenge is for poets… and madmen. I am neither."

"Quite right. Well… wouldn't you like help in becoming a stronger immortal… one strong enough that your hand might grow back?"

St. Cloud said nothing. The loss of his hand had been a surprise. If he'd managed to have held onto it when he'd leaped into the Seine… it might have re-attached. Legends were inconclusive. Legends were also inconclusive as to whether a limb might be re-grown in time if one had enough power… but there were tales that were older than he was that suggested such a thing might be possible. In his eight and one-half centuries of life… he had seen and heard of all manner of phenomena. Suddenly this man's words were intriguing. It was true… as he was now… he was hardly a threat to any immortal except the very young. And he'd always prided himself on leaving the young alone. Everyone should have a chance at life. He'd never raped a virgin or killed a fledgling. He did have scruples. Few… true enough… but he did have them. He was thief… not a monster. He couldn't help it if mortals died at his hands. They were weak and in the end… totally unimportant.

St. Cloud chuckled to himself thinking of the time when Darius had attempted to reform him. He'd been very young at the time… new to France and he'd only recently killed his first teacher, the French crusader Henri St. Cloud whose name he'd taken. St. Cloud had found him on the battlefield in the Holy Land… apprised him of what he was… and taken him home with him to France… secure that he'd done the right thing. He had. He'd opened Xavier's eyes to a wider world… and to the possibilities of wealth almost beyond understanding. When he'd disapproved of Xavier's activities, the young immortal had killed his master and come fully to understand the great gift of immortality.

But then he'd had some difficulties. He was young… didn't yet know the language or customs of France… and had fled before the mob to find protection in a Paris church. There he'd also found a new protector in the ancient immortal Darius from whom he learned many things. The immortal priest's words had sounded softly on his young ears. But Xavier was immortal and wanted a better life… certainly not one that involved a cloister. He'd wanted fine clothes, money, and the best that immortality had to offer… not an eternity of selfless denial. And he'd so enjoyed torturing the priest in later years with that knowledge and flinging Darius' failure with him into his face. He truly had never understood how any immortal could give up life the way he had… especially one who'd once stood on the pinnacle of success with the known world spread at his feet… ready for his rule.

"Say your words are interesting… what do I get out of it?" St. Cloud said smoothly.

"All the money of your victims… whatever accounts they own I can see are transferred legally to a holding company and then diverted to whatever account you specify," Horton said with a smile. "Their swords of course. In fact… anything you want."

"And what do you get?"

Horton smiled as he crossed his legs. "I get an immortal strong enough to kill Duncan MacLeod."

St. Cloud sat back. There were still times that the nerve endings in his right arm flared and he felt once more the pain of his hand's severance. He'd been almost five hundred years old, and among the best swordsmen who walked the earth when he'd first met Duncan MacLeod, Hamza el Kahir's young student. He'd found the young Scot to be a joke. St. cloud had wasted a moment on him. As a rule, the Moor studied his opponents… found their weaknesses… and never challenged a superior swordsman… just ones who could increase his own abilities. It was a tactic, which had served him well in his long life. He'd run across MacLeod several more times in the past few hundred years… but he'd never seen the man as either worthy of his skills… or a threat to his head. The Highlander had always seemed a bombastic barbarian to Xavier. But he'd evidently mellowed since their last encounter. He'd slipped up with MacLeod… let his anger at losing the income from the robbery get in the way of his challenge. And in so doing… he'd paid for that anger. Xavier St. Cloud was determined never to let anger get in his way again. But if he could achieve an advantage over the Highlander… he might yet get the younger man's head. Who'd have thought the brash young Scotsman would have gotten so good in so short a time? "If I were inclined to this rather vague proposition… how might I level the playing field."

"With guns," Horton said.

St. Cloud laughed. "Guns are ineffective. You can't kill with a gun."

"No… but you can slow an immortal down long enough to take his head."

"I can't fire weapons and wield a sword. Your plan is utter foolishness."

"What if someone else fires the gun… or guns."

St. Cloud was silent. Then he turned on the bench toward Horton. "You are offering to shoot immortals for me so that I can claim a hollow victory? Part of the game is that the skill of one must overcome the skill of the other. Guns are a cheat."

"Oh… I wouldn't be the one firing the gun… although once we face MacLeod I might be. No… I have men who do my bidding… men I will put at your disposal. Don't be such an effete snob, Xavier! You've cheated before in the game. You've used gas or any advantage you could get to be certain that you survived. Guns are no different. Besides, don't you want the chance of re-growing your hand? Oh yes… I know the old legends too." Horton's smile widened. "I also know that to defeat Duncan MacLeod… we have to cripple him… rob him one by one of everyone in the world he cares for. His friends… his workers… his lover… even the immortals he wants to save… like Darius."

"Darius? I'd heard he was dead?"

"No. He escaped my trap."

"But you know where he is?"

Horton shook his head. "Not yet. But I will. Eventually he will contact MacLeod and then we can strike."

"Darius," breathed St. Cloud suddenly very interested. Darius had absorbed a great power according to legend… a power and quickening so great that it was said to have leveled half of Paris at the time. What would that power do for St. Cloud? He lifted his hook and clicked it thoughtfully. Taking Darius' head might well give him all the power he'd ever need to be the one. Besides… killing the priest would upset MacLeod. "I may be interested in your plan," he said aloud to the mortal. He didn't trust him. Any mortal who knew this much about them was a danger to them all. But he might be able to use him for a while.

"Excellent," Horton said smoothly. "We can begin making arrangements for your first beheading. I have someone in mind… a bit young… not especially skilled… but we should start small… Don't you think?"

"Hmm…" mused St. Cloud, "… then perhaps we can come to an arrangement. I warn you… I require a not so modest stipend. After all… it's my head on the line."

"Your head will be quite safe, I promise you. No one will expect you to bend the rules. The kill squads will be a surprise. And you will reap the rewards." Horton slapped his hands together several times in excitement. He had the monster… he was certain of it. He had him in his grasp and would continue to dangle heads before him… and money… whatever it took. But soon… very soon… he would be ready to close in on Duncan MacLeod. He offered St. Cloud a hand to shake… and made certain he didn't flinch. Later… he'd burn the gloves, scrub his hands, and likely vomit from this near encounter… but for know… he could manage. After all… it was MacLeod he wanted dead… and he'd promised himself that it would happen… no matter what.

St. Cloud offered his good hand and kept the smile plastered on his face. This foolish mortal would die as soon as he no longer had any use for him. But Horton was right about one thing… St. Cloud was handicapped in the game at the moment and he could use a little help… at least for a while. But in the end… Duncan MacLeod's head and quickening would be his… it was a promise he'd made to himself that night last spring that he'd dragged himself out of the Seine and seen the damage the Highlander had done to him. St. Cloud liked keeping promises he made to himself… yes indeed he did.

-----

After St. Cloud had left, Stanley Barton claimed the seat the immortal had vacated. "Well?"

"I rather think we have him."

"I don't like this, James. The plan was to kill them and prevent any of them from being the one. If the quickenings are lost at our hands… then none of them will ever be the one."

"Patience my friend. Xavier will die when we no longer need him. I promise that you can take his head. You can gun him down as you will do others for him as he gains new confidence and becomes enmeshed in our snares."

"Me? I'm his official Watcher."

"Yes… and you will continue to feed false information on his whereabouts and activities to your superiors. I don't want there to be any slip-ups in this. We will help Mr.St. Cloud kill immortals until I'm ready for him to face MacLeod. We'll start small… with immortals MacLeod's never had dealings with."

"Why not just kill them ourselves?"

"Because… as long as a quickening is released… they will believe it is an unidentified immortal on the hunt. They won't suspect our involvement. We will gain strength and allies. Our moles still within the organization will continue to strengthen support for our movement. In the end… we will be the ones in control. And then… then Stanley, my young friend… we shall slaughter all the immortals. None shall remain to hold sway over us. Mortal man shall rise triumphant! This offshoot of humanity will go the way of the Neanderthal! They are a dead end. They can't even re-produce."

"Where do they come from?"

Horton shrugged. "Who knows. But no immortal has ever had children. Wherever they come from… it's not from each other."

Barton shook his head. "Then how can we ever be certain that we have them all?"

"Because we have the records… or we will have. We'll be able to gain access to the complete library and one by one we'll hunt them down."

Barton nodded and rose to return to his current job of following St. Cloud. He had some doubts about this that he was as yet afraid to voice. One of those was that by hastening the end of the game… they might be signing their own death warrants. Still… Horton seemed to know what he was doing… and much of what he said made sense in a twisted sort of way. Besides… as long as he finally got to be the one to whack the Moorish bastard… he'd be happy. He could play along. He just hoped that Horton didn't really want him to be friends with the monster… not really.

St. Cloud had come to Chicago as one of the finest centers for prosthetics in the world was here. The man obviously wanted the best appliance made to replace his living hand… and he'd paid dearly for it. Well, thought Barton, for all the good it will do him in the game, he was welcome to it. Whistling he flagged a cab. This might turn out to be the best assignment he'd ever had.


	22. 22 Promises to Keep, part 4

**22**

_**Promises to Keep, part 4**_

**Seacouver:**

At the sound of the knock at the door, Joe Dawson, acting head of the American Northwest Watcher's Bureau peered over the stack of reports he still had to go through. Taking over the strings of this department in the wake of Horton's treason had proven to be a massive undertaking. He hated bureaucracy and he hated research. He was a man of action… a field operative. True… in his twenty plus years in Watcher's, he'd had to prove himself several times before they'd let him be a full-time field agent. No one had wanted to mention his handicap… so Joe had used that reluctance again and again to push his case forward. Eventually he'd gotten what he considered the plum assignment of Duncan MacLeod. Now, however, he wondered if that had been as good an assignment as he'd once hoped.

Joe still believed that Duncan MacLeod was one of the best of the immortals. It was a common occurrence that Watcher's often "pulled" for "their" immortal… that was even true among those who followed some of what Joe considered the scumbags… the bottom feeders… the terrors of the immortal world. Everyone hoped to some degree that "their guy" would make it to the fabled gathering… and be the lone survivor. He often wondered what the prize would be… and if the immortal who won it would be worthy of whatever it was.

Glancing up at the knock he noticed a well-built man in his thirties, a high widow's peak of dark hair over an intelligent expression and muscles that bulged slightly beneath his pinstriped shirt. "Joe Dawson?" the man said pleasantly. "I'm Mike Barrett. Jack Shapiro reassigned me to be your assistant. He smiled.

Joe paused and then waved Barrett in. "forgive me if I don't get up," he said brightly as he gestured toward the files. "I'm still trying to go through a lot of these files and figure out what James was up to and how much he knew."

Barrett entered and Joe waved him to a seat. Obviously Barrett, former Special Ops military was here for a reason. He sat confidently in the offered chair, crossed his legs and met Joe's gaze without flinching.

"Thought you were on Martin Hyde," Joe said.

"Still am… officially," Barrett replied. "Jack thought you could use some help straightening things out here. I have…" Barrett blushed slightly, "… excellent bookkeeping skills. Besides… I needed a slight… break… from his headhunting ways."

"Gettin' to you?"

Barrett shrugged but offered nothing further regarding Hyde. "Jack just wanted you to have the best help available while you sort through things."

"And a pair of strong legs," Joe spat as sat back in the executive chair, rocking slightly. It was always a bone of contention. "What do they want you to do."

Barrett eyed Joe carefully and then seemed to nod to himself. "I'll be honest. With all that's happened… and MacLeod's discovery of Watchers and your involvement with him…"

"My involvement! Hey… he found me. If he hadn't… and convinced me what was happening under out noses… there's no telling how much damage James and his people could have done. I'm finding records going back at least ten years on this Special Task Force he was setting up. Guess we now know what that task force was doing."

"Yes… I understand he was quite proud of his… shall we say… accomplishments. So answer me this Mr. Dawson… Why didn't we kill him? His actions were clearly treasonous?"

"He's my brother-in-law. I owed it to my sister and niece to plead for his life. Besides… James covered the mercenary Kage… the Kurgan until his death in 1985… and Blake Wilmington… that bloodthirsty bastard. Damn… he was never the same after the amusement park massacre. I know Psych cleared him… but I've got a feeling all those years Watching the worst of the worst may have been a contributing factor to what happened."

Barrett nodded. "Mr. Shapiro agrees. That's one of the reasons he's instituting these little R & R assignments for some of us who've covered some of the bad ones for a while. Besides… as I said before… I'm a hell of a bookkeeper." He chuckled.

Joe leaned forward and fingered some of the files. He really could use some help… but why was it he felt like he was being Watched. "You know if I'd agreed with James in any way… I'd have covered up what he did and helped him kill MacLeod."

Barrett remained motionless; then smiled. "No you wouldn't. Your reports on MacLeod are filled with glowing descriptions about his honor and sense of fair play and justice."

"Nice to know I'm not under suspicion," Joe returned the laughter.

Barrett laughed a little more. "But we've noticed that you pulled the team off of MacLeod… Why?"

Joe considered his answer carefully. "MacLeod knows about us. I wanted to pull people back off of him so that there would be no misunderstandings. I'm still Watching him. He's my assignment."

"And what's he doing while you're here going through these files?"

Joe smiled and checked a ledger. "Three o'clock… he's at the store… selling antiques."

"Are you certain?"

Joe froze and then gestured his resignation. "He's been pretty regular since he married Miss Noel in Las Vegas. He splits his days between roadwork, martial arts training at the _dojo_ he bought, and the antique store. Unless something happens… his routine seldom varies."

"What if something is happening? I understand he and Amanda were recently involved in a caper that ended up on a murder tape… they were dead."

Joe scratched his beard. "You saw that did you?"

Barrett nodded.

"When Amanda arrived, I pulled her Watcher back slightly and let her Watch both of them. She did as she was told… no interference. Neither Amanda nor MacLeod knew she was there."

"Are you certain?"

"Yeah… I'm certain. Now," Joe said angrily, "if you're here to help… then I can use the help. If not… take a hike."

"I'm here to help, Mr. Dawson. My presence should free you up for fieldwork if that is your choice… or I can trade off with you in Watching MacLeod. At least for the time being."

"I'll think about it. We're still trying to get settled here. We had to move the entire operation from the bookstore a few months ago. We're not quite into a routine here yet."

"Then I can help."

"Yeah… you can help. Go see Doris outside about quarters and drawing any funds you need. We'll put you to work first thing tomorrow."

Barrett snorted and shook his head. "As you wish." He stood and took several steps toward the door and then turned. "Believe me, Mr. Dawson, I've got your best interests at heart… as does Mr. Shapiro. Your assignment is temporary while they do some further investigation into these matters. No one wants anyone dead."

"Yeah… got it," Joe said with derision.

"Oh… and one more thing. What happened to the trial database that Horton was setting up?"

"I wiped the computer. It's a mistake to put all our records in one easy to access file. We've survived because we've done it the old-fashioned way… no camera, videotapes or sound recordings unless they're on public record. We watch and we write it down. We don't stalk them… and we don't judge."

"The world is changing Mr. Dawson."

"Not our world… not yet."

Barrett nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Joe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His legs hurt… the legs he'd lost in 1969… they always hurt some… but recently they'd been bothering him. He guessed it was the stress of the past few months. Once MacLeod had found him… he'd tried to forge a relationship with him… trying to show the immortal that the Watchers really were the good guys. But it had been hard… especially after one of Horton's protégées, Pallin Wolf, kidnapped and almost killed Tessa. After that… MacLeod's patience with the Watcher had been short. And after the business in the Zone last month… Joe had pulled back. He was still Watching him… but at a greater distance… Some part of him still wanted to get to know the Highlander… really get to know him despite his oath… and have the opportunity to sit down somewhere with him and really ask him about his life and feelings. Not even the current mess dimmed that hope.

Joe swiveled around and picked up the acoustic guitar he kept in the office. Softly he strummed the strings, feeling the tension drain out of him. Before Nam, he'd even thought about having his own band… being a rock star. He and some of the guys from homeroom had met on Saturday mornings during their senior year to belt out tunes in his mom's Chicago garage. They'd never been very good… and nothing had come of it. But after Nam… returning to the guitar had been part of his therapy and over the years he'd improved. Sometimes he sat in with bands. Sometimes he dreamed of a different life. One without immortals… where he owned a nightclub and played the blues, and was married and living in Chicago. Some part of him ached for that dream. And another part of him was thankful that Ian Bancroft had told him the truth that day in Nam… about Andy Cord… and about immortals. Immortals were part of history… they'd lived it… and they had an understanding of it that was remarkable… at least some of them did. Some of them were cold-hearted killers and monsters just as Horton had raved.

They'd lived too long and seen too much killing to be able to feel the joy and beauty of life. Some of them hated mortals for having what they could never have… a life, a family, children, and old age and followed by a natural death. It was a truism that the grass was always greener. Men wanted what they didn't have. Immortals longed for normality… and mortals longed for more time.

Doris looked in on him as dusk was falling. He was still strumming the guitar, lost in thought. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked.

"Just fine Doris."

"I'm shutting down now, Joe."

"G'night Doris," he said with a smile. After she left he set the guitar back on its stand and pulled a thick file out from the stack. He opened it. Darius. If the priest were still alive as Horton claimed… he'd steadily denied killing him… then maybe there was a way to prove to MacLeod that he was his friend. He'd go through every scrap of information in the file. Surely somewhere in that file was a clue about where the holy man had gone. He turned on the desk lamp and settled in for a long evening. The idea that what he was planning was a denial of his Watcher Oath… that it betrayed the promises he'd made when he'd joined the organization never occurred to him. After all… he felt responsible that he'd failed James… failed to see that his brother-in-law had needed help… failed his sister… failed his niece Lynn… and failed her fiancé Robert whose death was still a mystery. If he'd been more observant… he might have headed off this chain of events. As it was… he felt he owed something to Duncan MacLeod. "I'll find him MacLeod… no matter what it takes… I'll find him for you," Joe Dawson promised quietly. This was one promise he prayed he could keep.


	23. 23 Revenge of the Sword, part 1

**23**

_**Revenge of the Sword, part 1**_

Looking up at the tap on the _dojo_ office door, Duncan MacLeod smiled pleasantly at Charlie DeSalvo. "What's up? Has the plumber found another problem?"

"Naw man…" Charlie hedged. "This time he thinks he's got the plumbing problem worked out and we'll be back in business within the week. Listen… I got a favor to ask." He shifted uncomfortably as if asking anything of "the man" was something he found unfamiliar.

"Shoot," Duncan shrugged, tossing the pen down. He could finish going over the books later. He really didn't like doing this anyway. He'd rather just come in… do his workout and leave… but the on-going plumbing problems continued to draw him in and entangle him… eating up his time here.

Charlie looked like a kid in a candy store… wanting to ask for some… but still reluctant as he clapped his hands before him. "I… uh… had this student a few years ago. A really great kid. He had a real flair for martial arts."

"And?" Duncan asked with amusement. This was getting good.

"He's been acting in some low-budget martial arts films. You know… as an extra… or the friend of the principle who gets killed… or the villain's henchman who dies early?"

Duncan nodded.

"He's written a script. It's sold. It could be his breakout role. The first film of a franchise if it takes off."

Duncan smiled slightly as he continued to nod and rock in the old wooden chair… the slight squeak of the hinge kept accompaniment to his rhythm.

"Anyway… the producers don't have a lot of money to put into this and they're scouting for cheap locations."

Duncan raised an eyebrow.

"I… uh… kinda told them before I sold out to you… that… uh… they could use the _dojo_ for a few scenes if they needed to."

Mac stopped rocking.

"Well since the plumbing's still down and we got no water… I thought now might be a good time for them to use the place. I mean… we'd have to shut down when they filmed here and by doing it now… when we can't operate anyway…" his voice trailed off to a whisper as he looked pleadingly at MacLeod.

"And who is this up and coming young actor and when do they want to start?"

Charlie's face reflected relief and pride. "Oh yeah… Jimmy Sang and would this afternoon be all right?"

Duncan looked askance.

"Well they called. Another site they'd picked fell through and since I'd offered… they wanted to know if they could come in at short notice. They know about the plumbing and said it's no problem as they use portables anyway." Charlie shrugged. "Jimmy even offered me a small part."

Duncan laughed. "Let me guess… the friend of the hero who gets killed early on?"

Charlie nodded sheepishly. "Uh… yeah… that's pretty much it. They want to set a few things today and start filming first thing tomorrow. I told them it was okay. Jimmy didn't know I'd sold out."

"You will apprise him of that tomorrow?" Duncan teased.

Charlie looked askance and then nodded.

"Don't worry about it Charlie. As long as I get to watch… there should be no problem."

"Then you're not mad?"

Duncan shook his head. "Should I be? You're the manager here, Charlie. I trust your choices. As you said… we're shut down anyway for a week… let's have some fun."

Charlie slammed a hand against the doorway of the office. "Well all right." As he left… Duncan could swear that Charlie was skipping.

-----

"A movie?" Tessa asked over dinner. "That sounds interesting."

Duncan nodded. "Well it will be fun to sit back and watch Charlie do his stuff. According to what I heard this afternoon… he will be fighting two Ninjas."

"Ninjas?" asked Richie, his eyes big. "You mean those guys are real?"

"No-o-o…" teased Duncan leaning towards him and drawing the word out. "It just means that Ninja assassins are a staple of cheap Hollywood films. Charlie will be fighting two stunt men."

"But this isn't Hollywood," Richie protested.

Duncan rolled his eyes.

"So you're going to watch?" Tessa continued smoothly.

Duncan chuckled. "Yep… It'll be nice to watch someone else get pounded for a change."

"Will they be using swords?"

Duncan shrugged. "If they do… they'll be cheap aluminum things that would break in a real fight."

"Man oh man… I'd like to see this."

"I'll see if I can bring you on set the day after. I don't want to create any problems. They've been kind enough to let me sit in as I'm the owner." He grinned.

"And you just love throwing your weight around," Tessa teased.

"Absolutely." Duncan leaned forward, elbows on the table and drank his iced tea. This was going to be fun.

-----

Well… it had started out as fun. True… MacLeod thought Jimmy Sang was a prima donna. He had a female masseuse to rub him down between scenes… and a makeup artist who oiled his bulging muscles… but the kid was good. Duncan watched his technique in warm-up and rehearsal. He had a real flair for the fighting… a pair of fast feet and his choreographed blows… while altered slightly for the camera… showed an intense knowledge of several disciplines. If the guy had been an immortal… Duncan figured even he'd have hard a hard time beating him in a real fight… except he'd have the advantage of experience with a sword. Trouble was… the kid was full of himself. He barked orders on the set to the crew as if he were king. "Get me herbal tea. I want it hot."

Charlie, meanwhile, was sucking up big time. He was clearly excited about his scene and threw himself into the rehearsal. The fact that he could beat the stunt men easily in a fight… had to be toned down some. After all… they were supposed to kill him. Charlie loved it… even coming up with a few ideas for moves in the fight that the director liked. Even Jimmy seemed happy with the result. Duncan guessed that despite his ways, the young man really wanted this film to be a masterpiece… one that would help launch him as the next Bruce Lee.

So Duncan sat on the provided canvas chair and watched the scenes play out… the "old buddy scene" where Charlie and Jimmy sparred playfully… the scene where Jimmy warns Charlie to be careful… he has enemies… the scene where Charlie scoffed at danger. They were trite and predictable… but Charlie was surprisingly good in them.

They'd just finished up Charlie's death scene and Jimmy had come on to revenge him… ending in his blood-curdling cry of denial. For some reason… at that point… Duncan shivered… as if recalling his finding of an old friend… beheaded. _Darius!_ he seemed to cry out over and over until his cries echoed through time. Duncan shook his head… that had never happened. He had no idea why that scene kept playing over and over in his mind… why he kept having nightmares about it.

Brushing the thought away like a persistent fly… he reacted to the bell indicating that the latest scene was over and that conversation could recommence on the set. He applauded politely and joked with Charlie about not quitting his day job. In the background he heard Jimmy yelling something about his tea and why wasn't it ready. One of the stuntmen still lay on the floor of the dojo where Jimmy's last scene had thrown him. They'd done the master scene and would be doing close-ups and cutaways next. It amazed Duncan the number of times they had to do a scene so that they'd have enough footage to craft a well-put-together fight scene with just the right emphasis.

Charlie leaned over to joke at the stuntman. It was at that moment that Duncan sensed something in the man's position. Oh nothing immortal… but he'd seen enough dead bodies in his life to know one when he saw one. Swiftly he knelt at the man's side and placed his fingers on the man's neck. No pulse. The stuntman was dead.

Suddenly this lark had turned deadly serious.

-----

Mike Barrett knocked at Joe's office door. "You might want to get over to MacLeod's," he said briskly.

Joe looked up from the thick file he was studying. "Why? What's happened?"

"It was just on the news. Some film company was filming a scene at that gym he bought. A man's dead."

"Immortal? Was there a challenge?" Joe tossed Darius' file back onto the stack. Research was one thing… but the life and challenges of "his" immortal were something else.

Barrett shook his head. "No… just a guy dying on the set… but it was evidently murder. The police are involved."

Joe shook his head. MacLeod was already too well known to the Seacouver police department. He'd have to move on soon if there were many more incidents. And Joe would move on with him. He grumbled under his breath as he rose awkwardly from the chair and grasped his cane. His job was clear… he needed to be Watching MacLeod.

"Why not let me?" Barrett insisted as Joe passed him.

"Not your job," Joe said ruefully. "It's mine. And I need to be doing it." He snatched a small tape recorder from Doris as he passed her and made his way to his car, his mind filled with one thing and one thing only… keeping an eye on Duncan MacLeod.

-----

Randi McFarland looked over the police report thoughtfully. Once again Duncan MacLeod was involved in a murder. True… he was not under any suspicion of anything at the moment… he was evidently just a bystander… but this was just one more case of his being at the wrong place at the wrong time… or the right place at the right time.

She closed the door of her small office and stared at the rogue's gallery she had created on the wall. On it were questions written in bold strokes of a heavy felt-tip marker… names of the dead… and arrows attempting to show MacLeod's involvement in each case. He was becoming an obsession with her… and she knew it. Her boss had suggested… rather forcefully… several times that she drop it and move on. But there was a story here. Randi just knew it. Besides… even her boss didn't know everything she knew.

"What are you MacLeod?" she said to the wall. More than anything else… she wanted to know.

An hour later she nabbed Donnie… one of the cameramen and headed for the antique shop. "I want to waylay him here… away from the scene of the murder and see if I can get anything out of him."

"Randi… I'm supposed to be covering the council meeting on the rezoning of the north end. This could cost me my job!" he grumbled.

"Not if it gets us the truth," she said smoothly. "I want you to film from the van. Close up really tight on MacLeod when I interview him… I want to be able to study his facial expressions and body language later. He's hiding something Donnie. His involvement in this many police cases is way too suspicious. He's dirty… or he's some secret agent with a lot of enemies."

"Maybe he's just unlucky," Donnie protested as they drove off the lot at the studio.

"Somehow I don't think luck and MacLeod have anything to do with one another. His showing up at so many of these cases as a bystander or uninterested party is too pat. He's involved somehow. That tape last week of the double murder supposedly committed by that FBI agent? I'd still swear it was him on that tape. I don't know who the woman was… but that was MacLeod falling into the water."

"Maybe it was a stunt-double," teased Donnie.

"Not funny," Randi grumbled and rolled her eyes. Stunt-double… and now a stuntman was dead in a movie? It was all just too suspicious. MacLeod was hiding his double-life… but what exactly was he hiding? She'd been doing research on him… and officially he was exactly what he said he was… an antiques dealer who'd lived in Paris for a while during the 1980's. But it was too pat. For one thing… she hadn't found any records of where he'd gone to school… or any references as to where he'd lived before Paris in 1980. Nor had she discovered any military records… and he had so obviously been in some sort of black ops group… nor information on his parents or any siblings.

She needed to go back a decade or so and come at this from another angle. As Donnie parked the van across from the antique shop and climbed into the back to set up his camera, Randi pulled the mirror on the visor down to check her make-up and hair. She smoothed her blonde hair and smiled. "Perfect," she said.

Donnie rolled his eyes as he shook his head in the back. All of the on-camera reporters were a bit narcissistic… but Randi was a hoot. Maybe that was why he kept letting her drag him along on her little excursions. She had a good nose for a story and most of the time it panned out. But this MacLeod thing was getting to be a bit much. She was becoming obsessed with the man… and Donnie feared it was dulling her instincts. Randi McFarland was determined to find a story there… even if none existed.

Satisfied that she looked great, Randi grabbed the small tape recorder. "Cover me," she winked as she climbed out. He watched her stroll confidently across the street as he looked into his viewfinder… currently focused on her swaying rear end. His finger tensed on the record button. Better not… if she should see it… he'd be in hot water. He raised the camera and focused as well as he could through the store window. He could make out figures in there… now to work a little magic. He zoomed in. This was gonna be fun.

-----

"Do they know the cause?" Tessa was saying as Randi breezed into the shop. She shut the door and angled toward the window display.

"Hello MacLeod," she said brightly.

"Miss McFarland," MacLeod said without enthusiasm. "Fancy you dropping by."

She held the tape recorder out. "A man dropped dead on a movie set filming on one of your properties. Any comment?"

Duncan snorted. "No comment."

Randi smiled. "Are you sure? Why is it people keeping turning up dead around you?" Again she held the recorder out.

Duncan's mouth worked up and down. He shrugged, his hands in his trousers. "No comment."

"Come on MacLeod… Give me something," she pouted.

"I don't know anything," he protested. Beside him his wife giggled and then sobered. They both knew something and it was driving Randi crazy.

Just then a man leaning on a cane entered the store. MacLeod looked at him sharply. "Dawson… I might have known."

Randi approached the older man… tape held out. "Are you MacLeod's supervisor? Do you have a comment about his involvement in so many Seacouver police cases?"

Dawson waved his arm at the recorder… knocking her hand away. "Hey… get that away from me. No comment… damn it… no comment!"

"I think it's time for you to leave, Miss McFarland," said MacLeod taking her arm.

She struggled against his grip and thrust the recorder into his face. "Haven't you heard of freedom of the press? What have you got to hide?" He ushered her onto the street. Randi nearly grinned. He was right where she wanted him.

"Miss McFarland…"

"Randi… we've been involved long enough to be on a first name basis."

"Miss McFarland…" he repeated and then shook his head. "I'm not involved in anything. There is nothing going on. I only agreed yesterday to allow the movie to use the _dojo_ while it was closed for repairs. My manager made the arrangements. I was allowed on set today as a courtesy. I have no involvement in this case. Is that clear?" He snatched the tape recorder from her hands and erased what she'd taped so far before handing it back to her.

Randi shifted slightly toward the street so that his face would be toward the camera. "You can't stop the press, MacLeod. There is something going on. As a responsible journalist… it's my duty to discover what that is and to report it… unless…" she let her tease hang in the air.

MacLeod took a deep breath and looked around. "Unless what?"

"It's a matter of national security?" she suggested.

MacLeod shook his head with a rueful laugh. "Don't you get tired of this game you're playing?"

"Why? Am I getting too close?" Randi leaned in closely and met his gaze… looking deep into his brown eyes… playing it for all it was worth.

He pulled away with a laugh. "Go hound someone else, Miss McFarland. And don't bother my friends."

"Is he your friend… this Dawson?"

MacLeod looked at her strangely. God, she hoped Donnie was getting this. "Good day, Miss McFarland." MacLeod pivoted and returned abruptly to the store. She peeked in and saw the three of them staring out at her and then retreating to MacLeod's office.

"Damn!" she muttered. But she had a lead. She skipped back to the van. "When this guy Dawson comes out… we follow him."

Donnie nodded. After all… she just might be onto something.

-----


	24. 24 Revenge of the Sword, part 2

**24**

_**Revenge of the Sword, part 2**_

Inside his office MacLeod glared at Joe. "I thought I told you to stay away."

"Tried to. But when my own people hear your name brought up on the news… I have to at least pretend to be watching you. If you want me to keep them off of you… you have to talk to me. Hell even the news people are here!" He gestured toward the front door.

MacLeod's face reflected conflict about this situation. He rocked back and forth slightly, his hands in the pockets of his pants. "What do you want?" he finally said.

"Your involvement," Joe said in a clipped tone. "Is an immortal involved?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"This Jimmy Sang?"

"Nope. And trust me Dawson… I was close enough to know."

"Could someone have murdered the stuntman to draw you out?"

MacLeod began to pace. "I don't see how. It was only chance they were filming there. It had been set up late the day before. I had nothing to do with it and was there only as a courtesy."

"That sounds like what you'd tell that reporter."

MacLeod leaned in to Joe's face and said sharply. "It's the truth."

"Fine. I'll make my report that this is just an odd occurrence then. But you listen to me MacLeod. You are entirely too well known to the police in this town. You better stay out of this unless its immortal business or you'll likely find more than me and the occasional reporter parked on your doorstep."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a probability," Joe said sadly.

"He's right Mac," Tessa inserted, softly touching MacLeod's arm. Her voice was filled with worry. "You know how bad it got last winter before we went to Paris. That Sgt. Bennett was getting very suspicious. And he wasn't the only one."

MacLeod smiled at her. "I have no intention of becoming involved in this. He's Charlie's friend. This is a police matter. I'll stay hands off." He glanced up as a tall striking blonde in **_Armani_** strode into the shop and looked around sharply.

"I'll get it," Tessa said.

"No… She's here to see me," MacLeod growled.

"Who is she?" Joe asked.

"Lisa Scott… the film's producer. Are we done Dawson?"

"Yeah… We're done… for now."

Joe followed MacLeod out of the office and headed for the door, lingering only long enough to hear Lisa Scott say sharply, "What the hell do you think you were doing telling Jimmy he shut the film down? Do you have any idea how the business works? Time is money!"

Joe smiled as he shut the door behind him. He had a feeling that despite MacLeod's words to the contrary… he was going to be involved in this set of events anyway. The Watcher returned to his car, pulled out his tape recorder and made a report about overhearing MacLeod reassure Tessa that no immortal was involved in the murder and then about Lisa Scott's comments. His own words with MacLeod he left out. As he shut the tape recorder off… he considered carefully what he was doing. He was falsifying a report. Then he snorted… well not really. He was just editing his own involvement in the situation out. Surely that wasn't a betrayal of his oath. He turned on the ignition and drove away. He did not see the dark blue panel van following him.

Some time later, Joe pulled up outside **_De Salvo's Martial Arts_** and decided to do a little real watching. True… he wasn't watching MacLeod at the moment, but he had a feeling the Highlander would be here sooner or later. All he had to do was find the right place to be able to see and observe what happened. It wasn't that he didn't trust MacLeod's explanation… it was just that he understood Duncan MacLeod probably better than the man understood himself. He was a good man… not just a good immortal. He believed in justice and fair play… and Joe knew, there was no way MacLeod would sit back and allow harm to come to friends… or even friends of friends. If Jimmy Sang were a target… then MacLeod would move heaven and earth to protect him.

After finding a parking spot in an alley across the street, Joe exited his car and stretched slightly. Tension was beginning to bother him and his head ached slightly as he limped into the Laundromat. After depositing change into a soda machine, he took some aspirin and found a seat on one of the hard plastic chairs that seemed to be part of the requisite decor of such places… this one was a faded orange. He settled where he could watch the comings and goings across the street as he picked up a day-old newspaper to peruse.

He was taken aback as someone slid into the seat next to him. Glancing up, he groaned. It was that damned reporter!

"Mr. Dawson is it?" she asked sweetly softly laying a hand on his arm. "I want to apologize for my actions earlier."

"No comment," Joe snorted and returned to his newspaper.

"I understand that. I was out of line. Duncan MacLeod has this way of pissing me off sometimes."

Joe smiled in spite of himself. "You got that right."

"Yeah," she leaned back in her chair. "He really interests me. How is it you know him?"

Joe shook his head. "I don't… not really. He's in antiques and I have a love of antiques."

"You're a customer?"

Joe shook his head. "I was in the rare book business. MacLeod found a book a few months back and came to me for advice about it."

"_Was_ in the business."

Joe shrugged… all of this was public record. It was usually best to stay as close to the truth as possible. After all… he didn't want her following him. "Yeah… I sold out shortly after. My brother-in-law and partner and I had a disagreement. We dissolved the partnership."

Randi's crossed foot pumped up and down thoughtfully. "And you were seeing MacLeod today because…?"

"I'd given him some inventory on consignment and wondered if it had sold," Joe lied smoothly. He was determined to get this barracuda off the trail. He shrugged sheepishly. "That's all there is to it."

She pouted slightly as she considered his words and then leaned in and touched his arm again… she really smelled good, Joe thought. "Thanks, Mr. Dawson. And I really am sorry about earlier. Still… don't you think it's strange that Duncan MacLeod's name keeps ending up on the police blotter?"

"None of my business how the man runs his personal life," Joe said with a slight shrug. "After all… it's not as if we were friends." Joe smiled broadly, showing his crooked teeth.

Randi laughed lightly. "You really are a very nice man."

"Nice?" Joe laughed jovially. "Hell no… I'm not nice. When I was younger… I was a real hell-raiser."

Randi pulled away from his side as she stood up. "Well… at least… no hard feelings?" She held out a hand to shake. Joe did so and then whistled under his breath as she walked out. She really was one fine-looking woman. Either the encounter or the aspirin had begun to work… Joe felt much better as he sipped his soda and settled back to watch the _dojo_.

-----

Randi climbed back into the van with a grin. "Got it!" she said proudly.

"You do realize that's stealing… right McFarland?"

She laughed at him with a wink and held up the small tape recorder she'd lifted from his jacket pocket. She'd noted Dawson talking into it before he'd pulled away from MacLeod's. She'd engineered the little sideshow to exchange her blank recorder for his. "Now we'll find out what he really knows about this… and just what Duncan MacLeod's secret might be." She ran the tape back… hit stop and then play.

-----

Duncan MacLeod was finding it increasingly difficult to remain on the sidelines. Lisa Scott was furious that he'd suggested to Jimmy that a lower profile or suspending production might be in the young man's best interest. After all, there was no reason to think that Jimmy was the target… even if… and it was a big if… the poisoned ginseng tea had been meant for Jimmy and not the stuntman. On the other hand, Lisa wondered if MacLeod would stop by the production office later. "I'd like for you to sign an agreement about our use of your place. I meant to do it earlier today and then the shit hit the fan." She apologized for her language to Tessa who simply laughed and walked off with a wave.

Duncan found himself slightly intrigued by the young woman. Lisa was a tough cookiewho was making it in a man's business. Tall, nicely built, with long blonde hair, she dressed to the nines and exuded confidence and ability. Duncan was seeing, however, that beneath all that bravado, was a woman desperately afraid that her big break in the movie business was evaporating. If she failed with this film… failed to bring it in on time and under cost… it might be a while before she ever got another chance. Reluctantly he agreed to stop by in the morning. He watched her leave with a combination of interest and regret.

Evidently Tessa picked up on it.

"Sorry?" she said teasingly as she stood beside him and blew in his ear.

"Pardon?"

"That you're off the market?"

Duncan grinned, pulling her tightly to him in an embrace as he steered her toward the private quarters of the shop. "What do you think?" He nibbled at her mouth with a laugh.

"I think you think that you're irresistible to woman," she replied as she nibbled back.

"Am I?"

"Are you what?"

"Irresistible?" he teased.

"What do you think?" she laughed as he managed to close the door for a few moments of privacy.

-----

At the _dojo_… the police investigation had shut things down for a few hours… but the crew was already busy re-setting for cut-aways and close-ups. Time was money… and not even a murder could stop things entirely. At least the stuntman had been masked for his scene, so replacing him was not a problem. The AD was taking up a collection for his family. Jimmy had made the first contribution… a rather nice one. It was dark when they'd finished up and Charlie was beat.

It wasn't just doing the fight scene… it was going through the motions time and time again as the cameras moved about them to catch different angles. Charlie began thinking that the movie business was not so glamorous after all.

As he pulled on a coat to leave, Jimmy said something about a martial arts exhibition he had scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at Seacouver Park and asked if Charlie would accompany him. Charlie grinned. Now this was more like it! He'd get a chance to see the kid perform for the children from his old neighborhood. The celebrity side of the movie business sounded like fun. Besides, maybe MacLeod was right and Jimmy _was_ a target for some disgruntled murderer… maybe Charlie could play bodyguard.

After the movie people left, Charlie settled into the office chair to call MacLeod. He wanted him to know what tomorrow's schedule looked like and when the crew would be filming at the _dojo_ over the next few days. After all… the place was his now… and somehow… that still hurt.

-----

The production office for **_Revenge of the Sword_** was a shambles. During the night someone had broken in and trashed the place. Several of the small sets that they'd built there had been damaged. Once the police left, with their theories as to who and why someone might have it in for the film, the crew began resetting things. Thankfully the director and the main crew were at the _dojo_ continuing with the day's filming.

Duncan looked around at the damage, his gaze lingering on a red symbol spray-painted neatly on a mirror… as if someone had used a stencil. "It's a tong sign," he told Lisa and looked at Jimmy. "Your film's about the tong."

"So?" the young man said with a belligerent shrug. "I made it up." He stormed off. "I have an exhibition scheduled."

Lisa shook her head. "I'm beginning to think you're right Mr. MacLeod. Jimmy's life may be in danger. Do me a favor as you seem to understand something about this?"

"What favor?" Duncan nearly grinned. Somehow he'd just known he was going to be involved somehow.

"Come with me to the exhibition. Keep an eye out. I don't want to involve the police as this is more a gut feeling rather than fact… but if Jimmy's life is in danger…" She bit her lip and looked at him pleadingly.

"I might notice something," he finished.

"Exactly. Police might scare them off… but it wouldn't help us find out who's behind all this."

Duncan made an exaggerated gesture as he looked at his watch. "I guess I can find the time," he said with a slight look of boredom. It was pleasant day… and while he didn't particularly like the young film actor, he didn't want to see him hurt… either. Besides… that tong symbol reminded him of other friends in years gone by, who had run up against organized crime and paid with their lives. Duncan didn't want to see anyone else die if it could be helped.

-----

As he accompanied Jimmy to the park, Charlie tried to make contact with his former student as both friend and mentor. Trouble was… Jimmy seemed to see himself as Charlie's savior somehow. He was going to Los Angeles. He'd take Charlie with him. He'd help Charlie get stuntwork in the business. When Charlie desisted… Jimmy tried a new tack. He'd take Charlie to L.A. He'd set him up in business… "a _dojo_ to the stars," he said moving his hand as if it indicated some flashing neon sign.

"Not interested," Charlie said. "I like it here."

"But you don't even own your own business anymore. That was your dream… remember."

Charlie did remember. It still hurt that he hadn't been able to make a go of it when he'd owned the place. It hurt that to pay his mother's last medical bills he'd had to sell it. But MacLeod, for all of his secrets was a good boss. He'd kept Charlie on… recognizing that Charlie's continued involvement would help business. After all… the clients were Charlie's. If he left… they might also. Somehow, Charlie thought that making money was not a concern of MacLeod's.

Jimmy apologized for his insinuations and words… and Charlie forgave him. For all his brashness… Jimmy was still a sweet kid at heart… one that needed the approval and love of a father figure. Since his father had kicked him out at sixteen, Jimmy likely needed a strong father figure… Charlie swallowed the insults and decided to be one.

They reached the exhibition area. Charlie noted a second unit film crew already set up to capture some of the show. Evidently the director thought they might get some footage that they could use. The kids were there… and they were enthusiastic… holding up copies of Jimmy Sang photos… likely provided by the production company. Off to one side, Charlie noted MacLeod leaning against a tree.

During the exhibition, he didn't so much watch Jimmy… as the surrounding area. When he yelled out Charlie's name and began running for the street, Charlie did the sensible thing. He tackled Jimmy to the ground and covered him. He could hear bullets impinging in the area.

"God!" he thought as lay there. "I hope none of these kids get hit." They didn't… but MacLeod was certainly a wonder. Who did he think he was? Superman? He'd leaped onto the speeding car and held onto the hood as it did a one-eighty in the intersection and drove away. As the car picked up speed coming out of the turn, MacLeod did a double-backflip.

"Sheesh MacLeod!" Charlie said as he came up behind his boss. "What are you gonna do next? Fly?"

"I thought I just did," smirked MacLeod as he snatched his sunglasses from Lisa's hands and re-donned them. He looked around. "Everyone all right?"

"Seems to be," Charlie said.

"That's it!" Lisa said. "Jimmy… your life is important. We shut down. No more public appearances."

"Like hell!" Jimmy thundered. "This is MY film! We don't stop."

"Lisa's right, Jimmy," MacLeod added. "This is looking more and more as if someone has it out for you, personally. Are you certain this story of yours isn't making someone nervous?"

Jimmy waved them off and stalked away. Lisa followed. Meanwhile the film crew was wondering just how they could work the remarkable footage they'd shot into the film.

-----

After leaving the others at the park, Duncan drove across town to Chinatown. There was a Buddhist monastery and garden there that he'd visited over the years. He smiled slightly as he strolled along the white concrete wall surrounding it. The last time had been last year when he'd found Kiem Sun there. The immortal had left town after their disagreement, but as far as Duncan knew, Sun was still out there someplace. Their battle to the death delayed, but not necessarily ended. He might yet have to face his friend in some far-off time… and in some foreign land. He hoped not. He truly hoped that Kiem Sun had seen the error of his ways and had changed. But somehow, Duncan didn't think so. For a moment he flashed on just such a battle. He shivered. Likely it was just a memory of the one they'd had… although it didn't seem that way. He entered the Oriental garden, feeling at once the peace he always felt there.

He'd first been exposed to Buddhism on a journey in Tibet when he'd met a young man who'd become the Dalai Lama of that time. He'd found it a reflective and peaceful practice and had often come here over the years to talk with the masters here about what he'd read and studied. They were wise men. Duncan smiled. Darius had even been a Buddhist once. "Something I tried in my misspent youth," he'd said one day years ago. "It didn't take… at least not then." The thought of his lost friend sobered him. He'd have enjoyed this place, Duncan thought and then saw the man he was searching for… Grandfather Lao, one of the senior monks of the temple. If anyone at this place might know and understand Jimmy Sang and his possible connection to the local tong… it was Grandfather Lao. Duncan stepped forward to be greeted by the saintly old man.

Later he explored the area, looking for the funeral home that Grandfather Lao had mentioned. The old man had explained that he could not speak of Jimmy's involvement, but he had told Duncan about Johnny Leong… undertaker and tong leader. Like most tong, Johnny extorted protection money from his own people… keeping them under his thumb. He offered protection services to those who had no choice but to pay if they wished to stay in business. He was exactly the sort of man Duncan MacLeod hated with a passion. As he paused before the mortuary… a man stepped out, suddenly startled to see him. Duncan twisted him about until he had the thug trapped in an iron grip.

"My… my… my… no car this time?" The man had been driving the car earlier. Then he felt a gun planted firmly in his back and a voice urging him to step inside. Duncan smiled. That was exactly what he had in mind.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_Before someone comments on it I am aware that I have changed the order of scenes from the original episode slightly in this section; but I did so to make the story flow better in this re-imagination and to give reason and purpose to some of the the events. Remember... I am not re-telling the episodes so much as re-imagining them in light of what happens later in the series and with the changes Duncan has made to his life. I am also attempting to concentrate more on what we don't see in the episode that might have happened, and the thought processes of the characters involved._


	25. 25 Revenge of the Sword, part 3

**25**

_**Revenge of the Sword, part 3**_

Johnny Leong had been every bit as menacing as Duncan had expected. While Duncan had no fear of dying, it could still be a painful experience. Gunshot wounds hurt… as did broken bones, electric shock, and fire. Perhaps it was the mortuary's crematory chamber that unsettled the Highlander slightly as he'd faced down Leong and his revolver, loaded with one shot. Duncan knew he didn't dare die in this place… he had to get the upper hand. If he died, he had no doubt that Leong would load him immediately into a cheap coffin and run his corpse into the oven. He was that kind of man.

That said, Duncan found a calmness in the confrontation that allowed him peace of mind as Leong played a form of Russian Roulette with the Highlander's knee as target. Once the man was tired of the game and ready to kill… Duncan struck. He grabbed the extended gun and twisted around behind Leong, as he ordered the henchman to drop their weapons. Leong's fear of the one round in the chamber of the gun, now pointed at his head, was evident. Of course, in a move designed to anger the man and show that he had style, and a sense of humor… Duncan shot the vase instead before escaping. After all… it wasn't a real Ming vase… just a copy.

He drove furiously to the _dojo_, hoping that Jimmy would be there. Duncan MacLeod wanted answers.

The crew had finished up for the day and most had left. Duncan found Jimmy sparring with Charlie while Lisa watched.

Storming in, Duncan asked in no uncertain tone for answers about Jimmy's involvement with Johnny Leong… and the tong. An argument ensued… and then a fight… with swords. Suddenly Duncan was in his element… he snatched two of the shorter _wakizachis_ from a display on the wall and full on attacked Jimmy who had grabbed a _katana_. Centuries of practice and fights to the death with bladed weapons quickly put Duncan on the offensive.

He sliced lightly into Jimmy's mid-section… just enough to draw blood and yet not enough to do any real damage. "Not like the movies… is it?" Duncan taunted. His anger at his near death and likely cremation earlier at the mortuary was aimed at the young film star.

Disbelief crossed Jimmy's face. He'd been so full of himself and his abilities… so certain that he was the best that ever was… he'd never considered that this "old man" could beat him. He backed away, tossed the _katana_ to the floor and stormed out.

Duncan still had no clear answers… but his conversation earlier with Grandfather Lao about wisdom and answers and what a man knows and doesn't know began to make sense. This wasn't about the film… this was about Jimmy… and loyalty. Johnny Leong was not a man who accepted disloyalty. He wanted Jimmy dead because the young man had dared to leave him. That would be bad for business.

Duncan's anger cooled. He carefully replaced the swords into the display rack. He needed to go home… he needed Tessa. Lisa's and Charlie's yelling voices accusing him of upsetting the young man bounced off of him like only so much dust in the wind. He waved their buzzing voices away and turned dully toward the door, ready to leave, and his mind on Tessa's calm voice, her cooling hands… her beautiful smile.

Dawson stood there.

Duncan shook his head. He needed out of this place. He didn't need further complications. He waved the man off as he passed him. Then Dawson's words pierced the veil that Duncan had drawn over the sounds and voices of the _dojo_.

"That reporter has a tape."

Duncan froze and turned toward Dawson. _Tape?_ he thought with confusion. _A copy of that videotape last week? What?_

"Can we talk?" Dawson continued.

Duncan looked back at Lisa and Charlie. The two still looked angry as if they somehow wanted Duncan to make everything right… go after Jimmy… save the day… take care of business. They looked at him as if he were some sort of champion whose job it was to make all things better. But this tong thing had to be a matter for the police… he had to stay out of it. He was already too involved. He met Dawson's worried gaze, and nodded. "Come on… we can talk on the way to my car." Dawson followed him out.

"So what tape?"

"Mine. I make notes about your activities on one of those small tape recorders… nothing too elaborate or revealing… mainly where you are, who you meet, what you eat… that sort of thing. When I got back to my office last night, I turned it on to transcribe the notes and erase the tape… Ya gotta understand MacLeod, we're usually very careful about such things. We don't leave them lying around."

"Go on."

"Anyway… I'd made some remarks on the tape as I'd watched you and the others after I left the antique store. I added some additional other comments later in the day. When I ran it back to transcribe them…" Dawson paused and swallowed nervously. "I found out that the remarks I'd made on the tape after I left your place weren't on the tape."

"So… you recorded over them."

"That's what I thought. Then I really looked at the recorder. It wasn't mine. It was the same style and size, but it wasn't mine."

"Why do you think Miss McFarland has it?"

"I… uh… ran into her again after I left your place." Dawson ran a hand through his graying hair. "She apologized to me for sticking her recorder into my face earlier. She came on all friendly and stuff." He grinned and shrugged. "I'm a man. I let my guard down. I shoulda known she was up to something."

"What exactly was on the tape?" Duncan leaned toward the man… his nostrils flared in anger.

"Not much… but I may have used the word… immortal," Dawson said ruefully, and then flinched as Duncan balled his fists and searched for something to hit.

-----

Jimmy Sang's mind was in turmoil. His carefully built persona was crumbling around him. He'd returned to his apartment and was in the shower… pounding the tile with the palms of his hands as the steaming water ran over him. He wanted to hit something… he wanted to break something… but the tile in his shower was not a good place to start.

His legs crumbled under him as he sat sobbing in the water… his mind once more the small boy in the freighter on the passage to America. Around him people wailed as members of their families died in the crowded hold of the ship. He pawed at his grandmother… cold and stiff beside him. His father sat holding Jimmy's younger sister in his arms… a sister who lay limply and stared with dead eyes. Then he stood cowering before his father at the age of sixteen… the old man screaming at him in their native tongue that it was better to be dead than live with this shame. Jimmy's face had burned with the slap and he'd left.

Johnny Leong had offered a smile… understanding… money… anything if Jimmy would just do a few things for him. The devil is beautiful and beguiling Jimmy had once heard someone say. He didn't believe in the Christian devil… but he did believe in evil. He'd been drawn into the world of the tong… and had nearly lost his soul.

"It is important to be honest with yourself about who you are," Grandfather Lao of the Buddhist temple had once told him. "Do no harm to any living creature. You never know… one of them might be a family member." Jimmy had laughed then… and the memory made him laugh now. He'd found his way out of the tong by writing about it… and by intense study of the discipline of the martial arts. Johnny had thought Jimmy was learning them to be a better enforcer… but Jimmy knew that his studies were a means of escape. If he were good enough… he could find another life and reinvent the person he'd become. He could one day stand before his ancestors with pride.

Now… the past was reaching out for him. Johnny Leong would never let this film be finished. He would destroy it… as he'd once destroyed Jimmy's relationship with his father. He wanted Jimmy all to himself. Jimmy's compliance would mean that the others he cared for would be safe. Keeping them safe was more important than making a name for himself. But without the name… could he ever hope to be free.

The water pelted his skin and flowed over him. But his crimes and his guilt did not wash away.

-----

By morning, Duncan had calmed down. He was still calm when a frantic Lisa Scott called him while he was lingering over breakfast as he laid plans for what to do about Randi McFarland and that tape of Joe's. He'd heard nothing from the reporter last night… and her piece on the eleven o'clock news had been about re-zoning. But there had been a smug look on her face as she'd reported… as if she knew something and was sitting on it until she had all the proof she needed.

"What's up?" Duncan asked as he held his cup out toward Tessa to refill with coffee. Richie was going through the classified ads in the paper, mumbling something about a real job and his own place.

"Jimmy didn't show up this morning for filming. I'm worried. I'm afraid something's happened to him."

"He's a big boy. Why call me? Call missing persons."

"Not funny Mr. MacLeod. Listen… I'm trying to keep a lid on all of this. But I need Jimmy in order to finish this film."

"Business first," Duncan snorted.

"That didn't come out right," Lisa said after a pause. "Look… I'm worried he might go after this tong guy you mentioned yesterday. He's not at his apartment… the doorman said he left early this morning. He may do something that he'll regret… or he may die. I'd hate for that to happen. He really can be a nice kid. You've just not seen him at his best."

Duncan sipped on his coffee. Finally he set it down. "What do you expect me to do? I'm not exactly his favorite person."

"Help me find him? Chinatown is a big area. I don't know where to start. Charlie's helping me look, but he doesn't really know this area either, and I doubt either of us will get too far with the locals."

Duncan nodded. He doubted they would either. That was a close-knit community that did not cotton to outsiders. It was one of the reasons that the tong could still exist there. He chuckled, aware that once more he was being drawn into a situation he'd hoped to avoid. "I'll see what I can do," he promised and hung up the phone.

"What are you going to do?" Tessa asked.

"Looks like I'm going back to Chinatown."

"What about that reporter?"

Duncan sighed. "That'll have to wait until she makes a move. I have a feeling that before she goes public with it… she'll do some research… and then she'll ask me for a comment." He winked. "I may have one for her."

Tessa regarded him curiously.

"Oh man!" Richie suddenly complained. "Do these renters realize just how expensive these apartments are?"

"Keep looking Rich," Duncan said playfully pushing the young man's head. "But you might need to set your sights a little lower to start with if this is something you're determined to do."

"Lower?"

Tessa leaned smoothly on the table before him. "Well… you might try finding a paying job first."

Richie paled. "Right… a real job… regular hours… and then a place to live." He returned to studying the classifieds as Duncan kissed Tessa and left. He had an idea where he might start looking.

-----

He found Jimmy outside of the Buddhist temple, signing autographs for the kids of the neighborhood and explaining that the martial arts was not about "kicking butt" but about the discipline and confidence to walk away and know that one was in control. Duncan smiled. There was hope for the young man.

Grandfather Lao came up behind Jimmy and Duncan noticed the reverence and respect with which Jimmy bowed to the old man. Perhaps Lao was another father surrogate for the young man… the counter-balance to Johnny Leong. Duncan could understand that. He'd lost his own father so many centuries before. "You're na my son!" Ian MacLeod had cried again and again as he'd banished Duncan. Had he spent the last four hundred years seeking the same sort of approval in the older immortals he'd come to know? There had been good ones like Connor, Hamza… and Darius. There had been bad ones, who'd led him astray sometimes like Gabriel Piton or Brian Cullen. Duncan chuckled. Jimmy and he were more alike in many ways than was at first apparent. They were both searching for parental approval. Hopefully Jimmy, who had but a single life to live, would find his path sooner than Duncan had.

"Others also look for you," Grandfather Leo said to Jimmy as Duncan slowly approached. Jimmy turned and regarded the Highlander with a look of resignation.

"Tell me about you and Johnny Leong," Duncan prodded gently… hoping that this time… the young man would answer his questions.

"I was his enforcer. I wanted out… I left. Now he wants me dead."

"So go to the police. You likely know enough to put him away."

"I can't" Jimmy said nervously.

Duncan stepped closer. "That's why your father threw you out. You were protecting him by doing Johnny's bidding."

Jimmy nodded. "He said he'd rather be dead than have me working for the tong."

"So who are you protecting now?" Realization dawned on Duncan as Jimmy's eyes flickered toward Grandfather Lao. The young man was protecting him… the temple… the monks.

Gunshots rang out.

Jimmy flung himself atop Grandfather Lao as the crowd of children hit the street with a practiced air. Evidently they'd been witnesses to other shootings in the neighborhood… they knew to hit the ground and remain still.

Catching sight of the gunman… Duncan raced toward him… swiftly disarming him and pounding him into the ground. The man lost consciousness. Duncan pulled back… aware that all was silence. He turned toward the crowd of children once more standing and in a closely formed circle about something on the ground.

Duncan immediately knew… someone was hit. He pushed them aside and knelt by the dead body of Grandfather Lao. Oddly… there was a look of utter peace on the old man's face as if he'd merely gone to sleep… or exchanged one life for another.

Looking around… Duncan realized Jimmy had vanished. He called out for him… but already he could hear sirens. He couldn't leave here until the authorities arrived. Inwardly he groaned. Once more Duncan MacLeod's name would be linked to a murder. He gazed into the blank faces of the children. He didn't dare leave them here alone with the body. But Jimmy needed him… and he didn't want to appear to know too much.

Why was he here? What did he know? His thoughts railed furiously in his mind as he sought a cover story that would get him out of here so that he could get to Leong's place and stop Jimmy… for that was surely where the young man had gone. Duncan feared that even telling the police that would entail his being delayed too long… and he doubted he could get the police to send a unit there fast enough to stop Jimmy from attempting to kill the tong leader.

The young man was headed down a dark path unless Duncan figured out a way to stop him.


	26. 26 Revenge of the Sword, part 4

**26**

_**Revenge of the Sword, part 4**_

Randi glanced up when Donnie opened her office door.

"Your guy's name just came across the police scanner again," he said with a wink.

"What happened?" Randi was already rising from her chair as she grabbed her recorder and purse.

"He was a… get this… a bystander and witness at a shooting in Chinatown."

"Chinatown?" Randi paused. "What was he doing there?" She reached down to save her story and turn off her computer.

"Accompanying Jimmy Sang."

"The actor on the that martial arts film? Is he dead?" She was already bustling down the hallway.

"Who? Your guy or the actor?" Donnie chuckled teasingly.

"Both… Either one… Does it matter?" she said sharply. Donnie had laughed his head off at the old man's taped comments. True… they'd sounded like something from **_The Twilight Zone_**, that old television show about the supernatural… but Randi had listened to them with wonder. She'd been researching the name Duncan MacLeod throughout history since last evening… and was finding references going back four hundred years.

Donnie laughed. "Hey… that tape mentioned that he wasn't immortal… so either one could be dead… right?"

Randi glared.

"Okay… MacLeod was a witness and helped subdue a man who fired the shot that killed a Buddhist monk. Sang had left by the time the police got there.

Randi slowed. "Sang had left?"

"MacLeod actually didn't even mention he was there. Some other witnesses did. A bunch of school-kids." Donnie began laughing again; then he began to hum the theme music of **_The Twilight Zone_**. Randi was not amused.

"I hope you didn't mention what we heard on that tape to anyone," she asked.

"Nope!" Donnie said as he got behind the wheel of the van and pulled the door shut. "One obsessed reporter on this staff is enough." He smiled as he turned the ignition. "So… to the temple?"

Randi nodded. They needed some footage there. But after that, she was headed to MacLeod's.

-----

Upon reaching the mortuary, Duncan let himself in, wondering where Johnny and his thugs were. They weren't in the man's office; but when he saw Jimmy's broken necklace and a bloodied knife; he had a feeling where he'd find them… in the crematory. He just hoped that he wasn't too late… that Jimmy was still alive. He was… but he wouldn't be for long unless the Highlander acted quickly.

He leaped onto the crematory floor he was immediately assaulted by the two thugs. One of them was good… very good. Had Duncan been a man in his first life… really thirty some years old… he'd have lost. The older of the two thugs was a thinly disguised weapon. He'd seemed quiet and unassuming… even smiling a little yesterday in Johnny's office when Duncan had pretended to throw him the Ming vase. But the man was all business now.

Meanwhile… as Duncan fought… the coffin carrying Jimmy Sang rolled ever closer to the flames in the oven. Inside the coffin… Duncan could hear Jimmy pounding on the lid. Desperately, the Highlander managed to stop the forward movement of the coffin before continuing the fight. His opponent started it again. For some moments it was touch and go as first one and then the other kept finding ways to hit one of the buttons. The coffin rolled forward and lurched to a stop several times. And with each stop, Jimmy's pounding grew louder and louder. Just as he'd crumbled bricks and splintered wood in the exhibitions… so too now he was splintering the polished hardwood of the coffin. Duncan could not help him… he had to deal with the thugs… especially the older man.

From the corner of his eye he saw Jimmy rise from the splintered coffin and hop out. Duncan pulled back and let loose with a punch that he knew cracked the bones in his hand. Pain lanced up his arm as his opponent finally went down… joining his unconscious partner on the floor. Duncan gasped for breath and winced at the pain. Then he realized he had no time to finish getting himself together. Jimmy had gotten to one of the guns… and even now was holding it against Johnny's forehead… ready to pull the trigger.

"Don't!" cried Duncan between gasps. "Don't become what he is… a murderer."

"He killed Grandfather Lao," said Jimmy as he tightened his finger on the trigger. "He must pay."

"Then make him pay Jimmy. But not like this. This way he destroys your life. Talk to the cops. Tell them what you know. You can put him away in prison where he will never have any control over anyone ever again."

Jimmy closed his eyes… his finger still on the trigger.

"Don't let this be your testament to the teachings of Grandfather Lao," Duncan said softly. "Is this what he would want?"

Slowly Jimmy opened his eyes and shook his head. He shoved a sweating Johnny Leong away from him and turned away. "No… it isn't."

For a moment… Duncan recalled Darius's words long ago when he'd wanted Duncan to follow him and forego a life of violence. But that choice for his life was something Duncan had been unable to make… not then… and not now. He still couldn't live that life. He still couldn't stand by and watch while evil sought to destroy others. He had to do something. But maybe… just maybe… Jimmy Sang could. Duncan lay a hand on the young man's shoulders as he took the gun from the young man's unresisting hand. "Let's call the police," he said gently. It was over… he'd broken the cycle of violence for one man. He just hoped that it had been enough to make a real difference.

-----

Randi McFarland was still waiting for him at the antique store by the time Duncan returned home from police headquarters. Jimmy had told the police everything… and Johnny Leong was currently in jail being held without bond, as were his henchmen. Hopefully justice would be swift. Tessa excused herself to head for the back so that Duncan could talk to Randi alone.

"Miss McFarland," Duncan smiled knowingly. "Heard any good tapes lately?"

Randi paled. "You set that up… didn't you. You warned your friend I might try to get his recorder… and he planted that little tidbit."

Duncan chuckled. "What was on it? He didn't tell me what he recorded but said it would by something truly creative."

"Oh… just some talk about someone _not_ being immortal."

Duncan laughed and shook his head. Since there had been nothing specific on the tape about him… he'd decided to just laugh it off. Surely she'd back down… at least for now.

"But you were at the site of another murder today, MacLeod. Why does this keep happening?"

Duncan shrugged. "Someone was after film star Jimmy Sang whom the producer had asked me to keep an eye on."

"Isn't that unusual?"

"Can't say. I'm not in the film business, Miss McFarland."

"No… nor in the bodyguard business."

"Jimmy Sang and I have developed a close friendship in recent days."

"Why is that?"

Duncan shrugged again. "He lost his father when he was younger. He seems to have respect for strong male authority figures."

"You're his father figure?" Randi asked doubtfully.

"I suppose."

"And being four hundred years old lets you get by with that?"

"Four hundred? Where did you get that?" Duncan laughed. "Have you been into the brandy while waiting for me?" He crossed to a crystal decanter, lifted it and examined the contents.

"Duncan MacLeod is a name I've been running across in historical research."

"It's not an unusual name."

Randi shrugged. "Well… it was worth a try. Thanks for the comments MacLeod." She turned to leave.

"Miss McFarland?"

Randi turned back. "Yes?"

Duncan smiled at her. "If you want a story about all this… may I suggest you do a profile on the man who died this afternoon. His name was Grandfather Lao and he was a remarkable man of peace. Men like him should be honored… always."

"When they're dead you mean?"

"And while they still live."

"Like Victor Paulus last year?"

Duncan nodded with a small smile. "Yes… like Victor Paulus."

"Sure… I'll look into it."

"And Randi?"

She turned back once more, her smile broadening.

"Leave my name out of this story," Duncan asked. "It's not about me. It's about Jimmy Sang… and Grandfather Lao."

She left quietly and Duncan breathed a sigh of relief. He could smell dinner cooking in their quarters and could hear the voices of his family. Duncan smiled and the words of Emily Dickinson crossed his mind... "If I can ease one life… I shall lived in vain." If he could change a single life… then maybe _his_ life was not in vain. Darius, Grandfather Lao, Victor Paulus, and other men of peace had tried to tell him that over the centuries. Perhaps he was finally ready to believe it.

Within the kitchen, Tessa was finishing up some stir-fry while Richie tossed a salad and spoke of his job search. If he could make their lives better… then anything… anything at all… was worth the price.

-----

_If I can stop one Heart from breaking_

_I shall not live in vain_

_If I can ease one Life the Aching_

_Or cool one pain _

_Or help one fainting Robin_

_Unto his Nest again_

_I shall not live in Vain_.

-Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)


	27. 27 Run for Your Life, part 1

**27**

_**Run For Your Life, part 1**_

"You need new clothes," Tessa said about a week later.

She was sipping her morning tea and regarding Duncan, perched on a stool, forking eggs into his mouth, as he glanced through the paper.

"I need what?" Duncan looked up in confusion and then glanced at his gray sweatpants and sleeveless undershirt. "Is there something wrong with the way I'm dressed?" He'd gotten up early to do his roadwork, but a pouring rain had made him decide to forego that, have breakfast with Tessa and then drive over to the gym.

"Your muscles!" she said with a wave of her hand. "You're positively bulging these days." She sighed with an affected manner. "Gone is the slender man I fell in love with twelve years ago. Who is this muscular man sitting in his place?"

Duncan glanced at his arms. "I explained it to you Tessa. They will keep coming. I need to be ready."

Tessa laughed. "Not about that. But your clothes don't hang properly on you… except for those sweats you wear to the gym each day. That's it. I have to buy you new clothes."

Duncan laughed. "I'm not a clothes horse."

"But you need to look dashing at the unveiling."

Duncan froze in mid sip of his coffee and looked at her. "Unveiling?"

"I knew it! You've forgotten." She pretended to pout.

"Tess?" he growled teasingly.

"In New York. The buyer who wanted one of my pieces for the lobby of his new office building. It's due to be unveiled day after tomorrow."

"In two days?" Duncan mused thoughtfully.

"Actually… I have to go today. I have to be there when it's placed."

"And you want me to fly to New York tomorrow in time for your unveiling."

"No." Tessa sipped her tea and hummed slightly.

"What have you done?"

"I have two tickets for this afternoon. First class. We'll have dinner in New York tonight. Tomorrow morning I'll have the stature positioned and then take you shopping. It's your birthday… remember. Your four hundred and first," she finished up more loudly emphasizing the last word."

Duncan sat for a minute and then smiled. "A weekend in New York with the most fabulous woman in history. I can manage that."

"Richie can watch the store. We haven't any major clients and with this rain… I doubt there'll be much walk-in traffic."

"With this rain… the flight might be canceled."

"They wouldn't dare!" Tessa tossed half a croissant at him. It bounced off the end of his nose to land in his eggs. "This unveiling is very important to me. The office building will house several major corporations and the number of people who will be exposed to my work everyday is enormous. Rain… will not a factor."

"What time do we need to leave?"

Tessa looked at her wrist as if she wore a watch. In about two hours. So hop to it Mr. MacLeod. You need to finish eating and shower. I'll pack for you… you won't need much… I'll purchase whatever you need."

Duncan sighed. "Why take me with you if you want to buy me clothes?"

"Because I want them to fit!" she exclaimed. "The sizes I have don't look right on you anymore. Please Mac." She put her hands together in prayer.

How could he say no? He forked in another mouthful of eggs and folded the paper while he chewed hurriedly. "Shower it is, then." He kissed her lightly, grabbed a croissant and headed to the shower. For a few days, he could forget about the Gathering, the Game, and being immortal. He could just enjoy life.

Shortly later, Tessa heard him singing in the shower. As she was washing up the dishes… Richie came strolling in, looking like he hadn't been to bed.

"Late night?" Tessa teased.

Richie looked at her sheepishly. "Yeah… well… the rave lasted until five… and then Angie and I went for breakfast."

"Remember you're supposed to watch the shop for a few days while I kidnap Mac to New York."

Richie blanched. "Was that today? Gosh Tessa… I forgot all about it." Richie slumped against the counter and held his head. "Man oh man I need some real sleep."

"Well… I suppose you could open late today. Go to bed Richie."

Richie gave her a bleary smile and nodded as he stumbled to his room.

He didn't hear them leave. Man oh man he needed to sleep. It was likely mid-afternoon before he raised his head in the rising heat of his room and looked around. Things were quiet. It was only then that Richie realized that Mac and Tessa had left him alone here for a few days. Glancing out the window, he noted that the rain had ended. He groaned and rose to shower and grab a bite before opening the shop.

He dusted the displays while playing the tape he'd picked up at the rave last night. The Seattle grunge band that had played at the rave had been selling them. He'd bought it for Angie… and then had forgotten to give it to her. He'd call her later and see about meeting up with her. She was likely working at the shelter today. He'd ride his bike over and surprise her later. Angie had really liked it when he got the bike. She had always been into bikers… even in high school. Richie smiled, recalling the tattoos he'd discovered she had. They weren't visible to a casual observer, but he and Angie weren't casual. In fact, ever since the trip to Vegas, they'd been very close.

Hearing the tinkle of the bell over the front door, Richie straightened and put on his best "helpful" face. It was Charlie de Salvo. "Hey Charlie!"

"Hi Richie… I was looking for MacLeod. He'd talked about the two of us having a meeting today on the status of the gym."

"Tessa kidnapped him to New York earlier. I doubt he had time to make any calls." Richie liked Charlie, even if he tended to tire of the older man routinely wiping the floor with him. Still… Mac had insisted that Richie needed to learn some self-defense. He'd added some muscle definition in the past few months that Angie had definitely liked. She'd commented that he was losing his baby fat. For a moment Richie flashed to their tussle after he'd objected to her teasing. That had been fun. He realized that Charlie was grinning at him. "What?"

"You and that girl of yours having a good time?" Charlie teased.

Richie turned away. Angie was special and he didn't really like being teased about her.

"Hey man… I'm sorry," Charlie continued, slapping Richie's arm. "Hey… let me make it up to you. I never knew a young man who wasn't hungry. Since MacLeod's ditched us both for the weekend, let me take you to dinner. I know this great Italian place over on Jeffries Street."

"Dinner?" Richie grinned. Already his stomach was growling and he was salivating over the idea of really good Italian. "Hell yes!"

He locked up and then climbed into Charlie's car, whistling at the _primo_ shape it was in. "Nice wheels," he told Charlie as got in.

"She's my baby," Charlie replied with a wide grin. "I thought I was gonna lose her along with everything else to pay my mom's medical bills. But MacLeod's generous buy-out of the gym and his keeping me on as manager made certain I could keep her. Listen to that engine. She purrs like a very happy woman."

"Is that what happy women sound like?" Richie teased.

"Oh yeah," Charlie nodded.

The food at the restaurant was every bit as good as Charlie had suggested it would be. The service was even better. Charlie spoke Italian like a native and ordered with confident aplomb. Richie was impressed.

"My pop was Italian," Charlie explained after they left. "I made certain to learn all I could… despite not having him in my life."

"Guess that was rough," Richie suggested.

"Yeah… but my mom was an anchor."

"At least you had one parent."

"That's right… you were an orphan. I recall MacLeod mentioning it once."

"Yeah… Richie Ryan… poster child for foster services," he laughed. "But as bad as it was, there were some good people occasionally. Angie's parents were pretty cool."

"They were foster parents?"

Nah… just really cool people who actually thought I might keep Angie from quitting school and running off to join Hell's Angels or something."

"Did it work?"

Richie blushed. "She's still here."

They were approaching where Charlie had left his car parked when they noticed the car peel out of the parking space at a high rate of speed. "Hey… that's my car!" yelled Charlie and gave chase. Richie joined him.

The car swerved around traffic and then plunged into another car. Charlie's hands flew to either side of his head as he groaned at the crumpled wreck that was "his baby."

The driver, a tall muscular black man climbed out… looked at Charlie and Richie and then raced off. Richie did what Mac would have done… he gave chase.

He managed to keep up with the man until he hit a rooftop and jumped the distance between two buildings. Richie stared at the chasm between the two and the long drop… and decided since he wasn't an immortal not to make the effort. He bent over gulping in air as he made eye contact with the other man, still on the other building staring at him strangely. Then the man seemed to chuckle at something and saluted Richie before he raced off.

Wearily Richie made his way back to the scene of the accident… where Charlie was loudly complaining to the officer about what had happened. He grabbed Richie. "You got a good look at him, didn't you Richie?"

"Yeah… of his backside." Richie's lungs were still burning from the effort to catch the man.

"Look at this! Who's gonna pay for the damage?"

"You want to lodge a complaint?" the officer asked.

"You're damned straight I wanna lodge a complaint."

Charlie left with the officers and Charlie's car was hauled off. Forgotten for the moment, Richie stared about the dispersing crowd of on-lookers and wondered what to do. "What would Mac do?" he said more to himself than to anyone else. Mac would likely have gone with Charlie. But Richie had a healthy fear of police stations. There were, after all, a few robberies he'd performed years ago for which he'd never been charged. It was best not to be too evident around there or one of the officers like Sgt. Powell or Sgt. Bennett would suddenly recall his background and suddenly make the connection with one of the robberies. No… better to just catch a ride home.

Wishing he had money for a cab, he started walking in the direction of the antique store, hoping he might be able to thumb a ride from someone… although… in this part of town… that likely wouldn't happen.

As Richie made his way across town… suspicious eyes followed his progress.


	28. 28 Run for Your Life, part 2

**Author's Note: **If you haven't done so, please check out two short **Highlander **stories that I've recently posted. I'd love some feedback on them. The titles are **_Lost in the Shadows_** and **_Fallen Embers_**. One is a short sequel to **_The Artist's Loving Hand_**, the other is a prequel to **_Crossroads of Time_**. I've also posted a crossover story with the vampire series, **Forever Knight** called, appropriately enough, _**Forever Immortal**_.

_elle_

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* * *

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**28**

_**Run for Your Life, part two**_

It was dusk by the time Richie made it back to the antique store. He was tired, grumpy, and wet. On the way back, the rain had started again. He headed to his room and cleaned up. While toweling off, he noticed the message light blinking on the private line. He pushed the button and then groaned.

"Richie… it's Tessa. Everything is going well. Hope you haven't ducked out of your responsibility and ended up closing the shop up for the day. Mac and I are at the **_Ritz Carlton_**, if you need us. Don't forget to set the garbage out. Mmmwaaa!"

The next one was Angie. "Hey Rich. I think I left that tape you bought me in your pocket when I was uh… warming my hands. Ha… ha… ha. Anyway, give me a call later and maybe we'll catch dinner someplace neither of us is known. Call me!"

Richie sighed. It was so late that Angie was likely angry for his not calling her back and had made other plans. As for Tessa… well… he'd opened the store. It just hadn't stayed open very long. But it wasn't his fault! It wasn't as if he had stolen Charlie's car and wrecked it. It wasn't as if he hadn't had transportation problems getting back here. It wasn't as if the antique business was a booming one. Richie's shoulders sagged. "I think I'll just go to bed," he finally mumbled and turned the light off. It had been a long, tiring day.

* * *

He'd slept like a log, tumbled half-in and half-out of the bed and when he awoke the following morning… Richie still felt the aches and pains of his dash across the rooftops. Worse, his mouth tasted like swamp water and his hair, which had been wet when he'd fallen over to sleep… had dried half-up and half-down.

"Great!" he muttered looking in the mirror. "I can see this day is gonna be as wonderful as yesterday." He wet a comb and slicked his hair down… noting that it still wanted to resume its previous position. He brushed his teeth before checking out the kitchen supplies where he settled on an enormous bowl of corn flakes and milk.

Munching away contentedly, Richie tried to plan the things he needed to do today. First he really needed to call Angie and explain about last night. Then he really ought to check in with Tessa and Mac and let them know all was well… but that could wait. It was Thursday… which meant he was supposed to work out with Charlie this morning. But what about the shop? Well… he could open up when he got back and stay open late. Yeah… that would work.

His plans made, he dressed for the gym and was halfway over there on his bike when he remembered that he still hadn't called Angie. If he didn't soon… she'd likely give him the cold shoulder for dissing her. Girls did that, he knew. Sometimes they didn't understand that there were other things going on in a guy's life besides them.

At Charlie's, he began his warm-up routine while waiting for his lesson. Charlie was short-tempered this morning and was taking it out on his students. Richie groaned and wished he'd called in to cancel his lesson. The last thing he needed right now was someone yelling at him.

Once finished with his class, Charlie grinned and motioned Richie onto the mat with a wiggle of his fingers. "Let's see how well you handle this," he said as he assumed a position and shortly had Richie on his back on the mat. "You gotta concentrate!" he barked. "You fall for that every time."

"Yeah… fall being the operative word, here," he said holding up one arm for Charlie to help him up. He considered trying something then, but Charlie had shifted his feet so that he was well balanced and ready for such a maneuver. "I think I'm hopeless."

"Nah… you're just young," Charlie offered.

Thirty minutes later they were done. Richie had managed to fall every time… and his muscles were sore from the pounding he'd taken.

"Your mind wasn't on the lesson this morning," Charlie commented as Richie winced and rubbed his arms.

"Nah."

"Girl problems?"

Richie glanced at Charlie and slowly nodded. "See… Angie has two roommates and I live with Duncan and Tessa so it's kinda hard for us to find a time and place to… you know."

"Hmmm," Charlie mused. "I might have an idea. C'mon!" He rose and headed toward the freight elevator.

"Where are we headed?"

"Upstairs. I'll show you." Charlie winked as he pulled the gate down and activated the controls. Richie held on. This thing groaned as it rose and he wasn't too certain about this thing. He could easily see himself dying an early death if this thing suddenly gave way.

"Relax," Charlie laughed. "It's inspected. It sounds awful, but it's made for heavy loads and let's face it… we're not heavy loads, either of us."

On the upper level Richie stood in an unfinished room with bare rough-brick walls. There was one really nice arched window along the outside wall, and boxes and broken gym equipment were everywhere. Well… not everywhere. He noted that some plumbing had been roughed in for both a bathroom and a kitchen. He looked at Charlie in confusion.

"See… before my mom got so sick, I'd planned on fixing this place up and living here over the gym. I didn't get to finish it though. However, if MacLeod okays it… this could be your place. You could live here and be the night watchman." Charlie winked.

"Oh right," Richie said as lifted a sheet from off of a stationary bike. "Thieves stand in line to break into a joint like this. I can see his face now. Besides… where would I sleep… on the bike?"

"I'm not saying you wouldn't have to do some work… but man… I gotta tell ya. This would be a cool bachelor pad once it was cleaned up."

"And I'd have to do the cleaning. Like disposing of all this junk?"

Charlie shrugged. "Well… someone needs to."

"I dunno… It sounds good… but we'd have to discuss it with Mac."

"Absolutely. The plumbing is already here… it's just a matter of clean-up and finding a few pieces of furniture. Still… your own place man."

"Yeah… and the rent?" Richie stopped. He'd been looking at places to rent and hadn't found anything he liked in his price range. But this place might work. Besides, Mac would likely give him a good rate… being as they were friends. He could still help out at the antique store and here… at least until he found a real job. "We can discuss it with him when he gets back from New York with Tessa. He'll be in a good mood. At least… I hope so."

The decision made, they returned to the main floor where Richie grabbed his stuff, waved "Bye" and headed back to the shop. A place of his own where he and Angie could relax and watch videos, make popcorn and continue to get to know one another really well. Richie was grinning by the time he got home. He could hardly wait to talk to her.

Whistling, he unlocked the front door of the shop, and headed for the telephone. She'd be at the shelter now, he realized as he picked up the phone. He tapped the phone lightly on his forehead as he tried to recall the number. He had it and had just begun dialing when the bell over the front door tinkled. He turned to see his client. It was the man he'd chased yesterday… the one who'd stolen Charlie's car. Richie gulped and hung up the phone.

This guy was huge! Fervently he wished Mac were here. He'd know how to stop this guy. Richie smiled thinly. "Can I help you?"

"I noticed this place was owned by a Mr. MacLeod… Would that be Duncan MacLeod?" His voice was low and belligerent. A big man, well muscled, he moved with a dangerous air about him.

"Yeah," Richie answered carefully. "He's not here at the moment." Damn… he shouldn't have said that. Richie grimaced.

The big man smiled. His white teeth glistened in his dark face. "I know that."

Richie paused. _He knew it?_

"MacLeod and I go way back. We're old friends."

Richie eyed a sword in a display and nervously bit his lip. "Old friend as in _old_ friend?"

The man peered at him through narrowed eyes, a touch of amusement apparent in his lop-sided smile. "He saved my life, once."

Richie relaxed slightly. Still… he recalled other old friends of Mac's who were no longer friends. He flashed briefly on Gabriel Piton and Mac's warning for Richie never to pick up a sword against an immortal. "Then you're not calling him out?"

The man shook his head and began to wander about the store, picking things up and examining them. "He's done well over the years. But then… he's an astute businessman. Moreover… he's white."

"What's that got to do with anything Mr.…?"

The man looked up and Richie saw the pain of a lifetime of rejection reflected there. "It has everything to do with it. You're just a kid. You don't know what it means to be hated for the color of your skin or what it's like to be one of the dispossessed."

"No? I was foster kid… tossed about by Social Services and often mistreated by those who were supposed to have my best interests at heart. The world isn't against you… You have the choice to be a victim or someone who changes things."

The man smiled more widely. "That sounds like MacLeod talking."

"Yeah… well he's a good man, Mr.…?

"Robinson, Carl Robinson." The man stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and continued to survey the store. "When's he due back?"

"Later," Richie lied. "I can tell him you stopped by. By the way… the guy whose car you trashed yesterday? He's a good friend of Mac's too. He's not happy about what you did. I think he filed a complaint with the cops."

"Really? Damn!"

"Don't like the cops?"

"Let's just say I'd have rather stayed off of their radar."

"So why'd you steal the car?"

Robinson let out a great sigh and shrugged. "I needed some fast wheels. Let's just say I'd had a run-in with some drug dealers and I wanted to book out."

"You sell drugs?"

"Naw man… I stop them. I don't like their kind living on the despair of my people. We have enough problems without them coming in and feeding that despair with their poison."

Richie slowly smiled. "Then you're one of the good guys? You're like Mac."

Robinson snorted. "Good… bad… I'm just trying to get by. I once thought I could do anything if I tried. I even went to college." He shrugged. "But it didn't make a difference." He eyed Richie carefully. "What do you mean… like Mac? How much do you know?"

Richie considered his words carefully. Finally he nodded. "You're an immortal."

Robinson's only reaction was a lifted eyebrow. Then he turned away and stood thoughtfully staring at a sword in a display case. "So… you know about us." slowly he turned back to face Richie calmly. "But I'm sure he hasn't told you everything."

Richie shrugged. "You mean about the Gathering and the Game. Guess again. My introduction to all of this was as an eyewitness to a challenge. Mac's kinda taken me under his wing."

"Has he now?" Robinson gazed at Richie thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. "I'll come back later to see Mac when he's here." He turned to leave and then paused. "How much damage did I do on that car?"

"Charlie said about three hundred," Richie replied.

Robinson nodded. "I'll see what I can do. Let him know I'll make it up to him. Just…" he turned back to face Richie, "… ask him to cancel the complaint."

"Sure. But I gotta tell you… he likely won't until he sees the cash."

Robinson grimaced, opened the door and left… slamming it slightly as he exited.

Richie let out a long breath he'd been holding. "I gotta get out of this place and meet a better class of people. Meeting these guys is gonna get me killed… permanently," he mumbled. The thought of the loft over the _dojo_ filled him with possibilities. True… it likely wasn't far enough away from these guys… but at least he wouldn't be running interference for Mac on a daily basis.

Grinning… he picked up a feather duster, hit the power button on his boom box… with the music that Tessa did not like him playing in the store… and whistled as he gyrated to the tune… "and another one bites the dust!" Tessa just did not understand rock music.


	29. 29 Run for Your Life, part 3

**29**

_**Run for Your Life, part 3**_

Richie was up early the following morning… almost eager for the day to begin. He'd had the antique shop to himself most of the previous afternoon and early evening… except for that one tourist couple who came in looking for a Louis XV desk. Richie had no idea what that was… but showed them every desk in the place. They liked one of them, but had decided to shop around. After they'd left… Richie finished all the little chores about the store he'd neglected the day before… and managed to call and leave a message for Angie about dinner.

She hadn't called back… so Richie… feeling the next step was hers… had heated a frozen dinner in the microwave… or as Duncan called it "Tessa's beverage warmer". Other than heating the occasional meal… that's basically all it was used for.

He'd eaten… watched an old movie on the classics channel… something with Errol Flynn and swords. At one point, Richie had grabbed a letter opener lying on a desk and tried to follow the actor's moves with a sword. If anyone else had been there… he'd not have tried. Still… he sometimes thought he should learn to use one despite Mac's insistence that he not.

He'd gone to bed when the movie ended and for once… caught up on his sleep. Now as he gobbled his cereal… he was actually eager to burn off some energy. Perhaps he'd head over to the gym and if Charlie were busy… maybe he'd start cleaning that loft out. He'd be back here to open the store on time if he kept an eye on the time.

As he closed the door to the shop and headed for his bike, he thought he heard the phone ring, but decided to let the machine pick it up.

The weather was glorious! After the rain of two days ago, and the cloudy chill of yesterday, it was perfect weather for bike riding. The sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky and an unusually higher temperature kept the winter cold away. Richie wished he didn't have to wear his helmet. Today it would feel great to have wind in his hair.

He leaned into a turn and imagined himself racing for real on one of the circuits. If he were honest with himself… it was what he really wanted to do… race motorcycles. But to do that… required money. He had to have entrance fees, license fees, and money to live on while he traveled. Still… it was a dream he had. He focused on weaving in and out of the early rush hour traffic as he roared toward **_DeSalvo's Martial Arts_**. Mac had kept the name… he said it made good business sense. That and keeping Charlie there. Now… if he'd allow Richie to have the loft over the _dojo_… maybe Richie's love life would improve.

Charlie was working with someone, so Richie gave him a wave and headed up the stairs to one side of the gym. At the top, he pushed open the door and sighed as he looked about the room. If anything… it looked worse than it had yesterday.

Well… there was no help for it. He'd better get to it. Maybe if he did a good job… Mac might be even more inclined to let him have the place.

Sometime later, he was on his way back from the dumpster where he'd been tossing boxes, when he heard raised voices. Pausing in the _dojo_, he saw Carl Robinson and Charlie yelling at one another. Richie froze… he noted money had been tossed on the floor and the two men were likely going to come to blows. Evidently Robinson had followed him here.

Robinson was even now stripping off his long, black leather coat, and Charlie had his fists up and was bouncing around like Sugar Ray Leonard… or one of those dudes. Richie raced forward to intervene… aware that Robinson might not be as easy on Charlie as Mac was. "Hey… hey guys. Let's talk about this."

"You didn't tell him?" Robinson accused.

"Is he a friend of yours Richie? I thought you had more sense than to hang around with murderers."

Murderers? Who the hell said I killed anyone?" Robinson's fury was evident.

"The police. That's who. I picked your sorry ass out of the mug book and they said you'd killed a man in Arizona!"

Richie was being ignored as the two men squared off physically as well as verbally.

"I ain't never been to Arizona."

"Yeah… I figured that's what' you'd say."

"Hey man… I'm being framed."

"Yeah… and I suppose you didn't really steal my car?"

"Oh I stole it. I only wish I'd chosen a better one… not that hunk of junk."

At that Charlie's fists flew out and Robinson ducked, weaving just out of the smaller man's reach. Richie dropped his head into his hands. This had gotten out of hand… fast. Still… he had to do something.

He stepped between the two men… almost getting hit in the jaw.

"Get out of the way, Richie," Charlie snapped.

"Yeah… kid. You could get killed."

Richie held his hands up submissively and turned back and forth between them… hoping to calm them down. "Easy guys. Charlie… meet Carl Robinson… an old friend of Mac's. He stopped by to see him last night. He's offered to pay for the damages to your car. That's what you wanted… right."

"That was before I found out what kind of man he was!"

"Mr. Robinson. I apologize. I hadn't had a chance to give Mr. De Salvo your message."

The two men grimaced at one another belligerently as they backed slowly away. Richie blew out a sigh of relief.

"What about that murder charge?" Charlie taunted.

"It wasn't me. You know how these racist cops are. If you're black… you get blamed for everything."

"Only if you give them a reason. Obey the law… keep your nose clean… they don't bother you."

"Oh right!" Robinson laughed as he strolled about the _dojo_. "Ever hear of the Klan? They only cared if a man was black."

"Well in case you didn't realize it… the Klan has been out of power for about a century," said Charlie, his hostility still high.

"Right. But segregation was the law of the land until recently."

"What planet are you from? All that was dealt with in the fifties?"

Robinson glared and Richie began to have a feel for this immortal. He'd seen some rough times… likely had known first hand the atrocities of the Klan. But surely he could see that things had changed.

"Like you'd know," Robinson grunted. "And what kind of name is De Salvo anyway?"

"It's Italian," Charlie said and Richie saw that he was heating up again. If there was anything that set Charlie off… it was remarks about his mixed heritage.

"Italian?"

"Yeah… half black… half Italian. And proud of both!"

Richie covered his face. This wasn't going well. Why did he feel like finding a neutral corner and just letting them have a go at each other?

Robinson reached down and picked up the tossed money. "Well look. I'm sorry about the car. I'll pay for the damages. This is all I have at the moment but I'll get the rest. Just please… withdraw that complaint."

"Get the rest? You mean steal it?"

"I'm not a thief!"

The two men lunged at one another, circled and backed away. Both were breathing heavily.

Richie took the moment to try again. "Hey… Charlie… he'll pay for damages. He's apologized. Mr. Robinson… Mac, Charlie, and I appreciate the gesture." He smiled. "Let's shake on it."

Both men glared at him and then at each other. Robinson offered the money. Charlie took it. Both men grunted. Robinson stormed out. Richie paused a moment and then followed him.

"Hey… I'm really sorry. Charlie was busy and I really didn't get the chance to talk to him."

"It's okay kid." Robinson pushed his coat back as he placed his hands on his hips and looked up and down the street. "When's Mac due back?"

"Tomorrow or the next day," Richie replied. "That business about Arizona…"

"Man I got no idea. Like I said… I've never been to Arizona."

"I just thought maybe it was part of the… you know… the game."

Robinson eyed him with amusement. "You know about that part of it."

"Yeah… like I told ya last night. I saw Mac in a challenge. After that… he filled me in."

"Yeah… MacLeod always was a Boy Scout."

Richie chuckled. He'd thought much the same… but then Mac was the best thing that had ever happened to him in his short life.

"See ya around kid!" Robinson saluted him with a slight wave and took off up the street. Watching him go, Richie began to wonder what it would be like to be immortal. He and Greg Powers had talked about it a few months ago. Greg was another of Mac's old friends who'd been in town for a while. For a while, Greg and he had been real tight. "I wonder how they know?" he mused as he watched Robinson vanish around the corner. Did they know if someone was going to be immortal? Surely not. Richie laughed at the thought and returned to explain to Charlie about Robinson and hope that he hadn't lost one of his few friends in trying to stop a potentially deadly fight.

* * *

The sound of glass breaking and a knock jolted Richie from a sound sleep that night. Groggily he raised his head and looked about. Then he grabbed the baseball bat from under his bed and headed toward the sound. As he reached the display floor of the store, he flipped on the lights.

A bloody and battered Carl Robinson was huddled near the open door. He'd broken the glass to get in.

"I need some help kid. Someone is trying to kill me. And I don't mean as part of the game."

Richie lowered the bat. He knew that Robinson was likely healing… but he looked bad… really bad. "What happened?"

"A cop… one of the defenders of the people," he spat and wriggled a loose tooth with a sigh. "Thankfully he was interrupted before he could finish the job. He had an ax."

"But he wasn't immortal?"

Robinson slowly shook his head.

Richie thought for a moment. "Did he have a tattoo?"

"What? Like an anchor or something?"

"No… it would be on his wrist," Richie indicated his wrist and the location where he'd seen Watcher tattoos.

"Yeah… I saw something when he laid into me with that tire iron. What is he? A member of a cult?"

Richie shook his head. "Not a cult… exactly. But there's this group of mortals who know about you guys. Some of them have been killing immortals."

"Know about us? You mean how to kill us?"

Richie nodded.

"Damn!" Robinson slumped back against the wall.

Richie leaned down. "C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up while I tell you all about them."

"Now that's a story I want to hear," Robinson and took Richie's offered hand.

* * *

"So how do we tell the good Watchers from the bad ones? Man I do not need this!" An hour later, after a shower and a change of clothes… some of Mac's… there was no sign of Robinson's beating. Richie knew immortals healed… but he'd never really watched while it happened.

"I don't know. Mac's kinda suspicious of all of them… but there _is_ this one guy he kinda trusts. An old guy."

"Old?"

"Yeah… in his fifties I think."

Robinson chuckled. "Yeah… fifty. That's old."

"Well for us mortals it is." Richie protested.

"Okay. So if you contact this guy maybe we can find out who this cop is and whose orders he's acting on?"

Richie shook his head. "I don't how to reach Dawson… that's his name… Joe Dawson."

"Ever try a phone book?" Robinson said with a smile.

Richie turned and pulled out a phone book. It couldn't be that easy. But it was. There were four J. Dawson's in the listings. But at least it was a start. He glanced at the time, and then began dialing the numbers.

On the third call… he found him.

"Mr. Dawson."

"Yeah? Who is this? If this a prank call I'm gonna tell the police."

"It's Richie Ryan… Mr. Dawson. I'm a friend of Duncan MacLeod."

Immediately… Dawson seemed focused on Richie's words. "What time is it? Is he all right?"

"He's in New York, Mr. Dawson."

"I know that. I've got someone on him. I just thought… I feared you'd heard something."

"No… but another immortal was attacked and beaten earlier this evening by a man sporting a Watcher tattoo. He had an ax."

The only sound from Dawson's end was labored breathing.

"Would you know anything about that Mr. Dawson?"

"No. Who was attacked?"

Richie glanced up at a pacing Carl Robinson. "He wants to know who was attacked?"

Robinson gestured for him to go ahead.

"Carl Robinson… a friend of Mac's."

"Robinson? Damn!" Dawson hissed over the phone. "Is he all right?"

"Oh yeah… he's healed up and everything. But what we need is some help to find out just how this guy knew about Mr. Robinson and how we can deal with him." Swiftly Richie told him what he knew about the man being with the Seacouver police department.

"Listen. I'll make some calls," Dawson finally said. "I'll call you back."

Richie hung up the phone. Then he grinned at Robinson. "Hungry? I can make an omelet."

Carl Robinson regarded the boy with wry amusement.


	30. 30 Run for Your Life, part 4

**30**

_**Run for Your Life, part 4**_

By mid-morning, the trio of allies thought they had a plan… or at least the semblance of a plan.

Joe had spent the remainder of the night cautiously making inquiries about Watchers currently assigned to the Seacouver Police Department… and checking the names against his files on Horton's known associates.

Richie and Robinson had tried to figure out a place and a scenario where they could draw the racist cop out… and catch him in the act… without Robinson losing his head in the process. Everything they came up with consisted of Robinson acting as bait. Richie mentioned using a video camera and suggested that they tape the man attacking Robinson and send it in.

"One thing wrong with that, kid. Without some sort of intervention, I'm a dead man. He knows how to kill me."

Richie slumped into the chair, weary and sleepy. "Damn! It worked for Mac recently. But I forgot… that guy only wanted to shoot him."

Robinson turned the cup of cold coffee in his hands and smirked. "Yeah… if he shoots me… he'll grab the ax and any tape you make will expose all of us."

"It's so much easier when Mac is around." Richie's eyes were burning from lack of sleep and his head was pounding the staccato beat of his heart at full volume. He rubbed his eyes and head. "Man oh man I'm tired. How do you guys do this?"

"Guess our immortal constitutions help us stay alert longer and replenish faster. More coffee?" He rose and gestured toward the sludge passing for coffee in the pot.

"Nah! I'm coffee'd out," Richie said as he lowered his face into his hands. He jumped when the telephone rang. "Yeah?" he answered.

"Richie? It's Dawson. I may know who this guy is. I'm in my car parked out back of the shop. Let me in, will ya?"

"Sure. You alone?"

"I'm alone."

Richie rose and peeked through the blinds covering the kitchen windows. "Yeah… okay… I see ya down there. Step outta the car." He glanced at Robinson. "Stay up here and keep an eye out. That rear loading door is solid and I won't be able to see if anyone else is there."

"What's he look like?"

"Old guy… in his fifties… uses a cane."

Robinson settled at the window while Richie descended to the main floor and opened the rear door for Dawson… slamming it closed and re-locking it securely after the Watcher entered.

"Paranoid?" Dawson asked with humor.

"Let's just say… just because I don't see them… doesn't mean they aren't out there," Richie replied and then called for Robinson to come on down.

The big man descended the open stairway slowly… Richie could see he had drawn his sword… just in case.

Dawson held up his hands. "You called me… remember?"

"Hey… he gives me the creeps… but Mac seems to think he's one of the good guys."

"Yeah?" Robinson replied with a hint of anger. "I don't much like the idea of someone following me around."

"Which is the very reason you shouldn't know about us. It's safer that way… for both sides." He turned to Richie, "I know you think this was best, but I really wish you hadn't let him know about us. You could have told me in confidence… I'd have dealt with it."

"Well," Richie shrugged, "like I said. Your kind give me the creeps."

"You know you're in a very good position to join us. Many of us are friends and employees of immortals. We watch and record… we don't interfere."

"Like that racist cop?" Robinson snapped. He'd lowered his sword, but still held it ready in one hand.

"Him…" Joe's shoulders slumped. "Let's have a seat… this might take a while."

"Just don't ask for coffee," Richie said as he gestured toward a chair for Dawson. "It's really bitter right now."

Dawson sat, while Robinson continued to pace nervously, and Richie leaned against a display case.

"Is this him?" He pulled out a photograph and showed it to Robinson.

"Hell yes… that's the bastard!"

Joe nodded wearily. "I thought so." He lay the photograph on the surface of the table. "I shouldn't even be talking to you… but I know from MacLeod's Chronicle that you're a good friend of his. If he were here… he'd help you."

"You got that right!" Robinson said testily. He continued to pace. It was clear to Richie that Carl Robinson was an angry man. He couldn't help wondering what it was that Mac saw in this guy. But whatever it was… Dawson evidently knew what it was.

"You've seen great changes in your nearly two hundred years Robinson. You can do anything… be anything… you want. You don't have to live on the edge."

Robinson paused in his pacing and glared at Dawson. "What would you know?"

"I study your lifetimes. I study the pasts of anyone Mac has ever met. You had it bad as a slave. But it got better. Then you had it bad under segregation… but it got better. Because of men like Martin Luther King… and Duncan MacLeod… things are always getting better." Dawson stared levelly at Robinson. "I understand you take out the drug pushers. Good for you! Now what else can you do?"

Robinson chuckled and slowly grinned. "Well… I have a hell of a fastball."

"Yeah… I heard that. What else? What about all those college degrees?"

Richie's mouth dropped open and he regarded the big man in a new light.

"They were for a time when I actually thought I could make a difference."

"You still can. The journey of a lifetime begins with a single step. You make the decisions for your life… and try to impact the lives of others around you for the better. Then… you move forward and take another step. You have more chances than we mere mortals," his gesture took in Richie. "We have only a single lifetime to learn it all and make a difference. You have many."

"Provided your boy doesn't take my head. What is that all about anyway? My head won't do him any good." Robinson dropped into a chair and slouched, yet Richie could still sense the menace and danger in the man. He was like a jungle cat, too long caged… and hungry… very hungry.

Joe leaned his head on his cane and closed his eyes. He appeared to be struggling with his conscience. Finally he sighed and lifted his head. "His name is Eugene Carter. He transferred to Seacouver from New York City when his assignment changed identities and came here."

"His assignment?" Richie asked.

"Andrew Ballin," Joe said testily. "Helluva good cop!"

"He tried to kill Tessa last year!" Richie shouted, suddenly on the defensive.

"Yeah. He made some mistakes in his love life… and came up against MacLeod. But before that… he was dedicated police officer, first in New York… and then here. Carter was his Watcher from 1985 until Ballin's death last year. Carter was even selected Seacouver's Officer of the Year this year."

"Yeah…" muttered Robinson bitterly. "He's a real stand-up guy."

"That's what makes this so perplexing. His record shows that after Ballin died… someone put him on an extended assignment here and classified his activities," Joe said wearily.

"Special assignments?" Richie asked.

Dawson nodded. "I think he was one of Horton's recruits."

"Sonofabitch!" Richie exploded and began pacing.

"Who's this Horton?"

"He killed Darius. He tried to kill Mac!" Richie shouted. "But he's dead. Mac killed him."

Dawson's eyes flickered slightly, but he said nothing. "Horton's legacy ran deep. We thought we'd found all of his people. We missed Carter. He's always been such a straight arrow… this is just so unlike him."

"He called me a thing!" Robinson emphasized. "He said I deserved to die."

"And so we'll deal with him." The three men were silent for a moment. Finally Dawson spoke up once more. "We need to catch him in the act. Once we do… we'll deal with him. The last thing we Watchers need is for anyone else to learn about us because of this aberrant group. Help us catch him in the act… then we can close in."

"Why not just grab him and deal with him now?" Robinson protested.

"He has a great deal of support. As I mentioned earlier, he's always been a good Watcher. We need to catch him attempting to kill you for us to take care of him."

Robinson slapped one leg. "Perfect! My neck on the chopping block again!"

"Can't be helped," Dawson said wearily.

"But he won't be in any real danger… will he?" a concerned Richie asked.

Dawson met his gaze, but said nothing.

The late afternoon sun gave a slant of light to the midwinter's day. Even in Seacouver where the Pacific breezes kept it from getting too cold, there was a definite feel of winter in December air. As the breeze lifted Richie's curls, he thought he could smell snow on the way. That would be nice… snow for Christmas. He hunched down lower in his hiding place… the video-cam in his hands. Dawson had said the tape would be a nice bolster to his case so he'd agreed to Richie's earlier plan. Dawson was nearby with another of his people. Richie didn't even try to ask how he'd managed that. After all… his relationship to MacLeod was not generally known, evidently. Below them on the docks, Robinson worked about the slip where a boat was moored.

"The ocean will be good," Dawson had suggested. "You can leap into the water if it gets too dangerous and we'll try again later."

"But no sword," Robinson grumbled.

"I need to catch Carter attacking you for no reason. With a sword in your hands, he could claim self-defense."

"So how will he know where to find me?"

Dawson had grinned, and Richie thought he saw a twinkle of devilish amusement in the old man's eyes. "Hey… we're Watchers. We see everything." He'd winked then… so evidently he had it planned out.

Robinson had been working at the slip almost half an hour when Carter showed up. Richie gulped, ducked down and aimed the camera. Carter came up behind Robinson who, when he heard him, turned and spread his hands… loudly protesting about police brutality. Richie grinned. This was even better than the one he'd done of Mac, Amanda, and the crooked Fed. That streak of larceny in Richie that fully disliked the authorities, reveled in so taking down another man in blue who had put himself above the law he was supposed to be serving.

"You're gonna die, freak," Carter was saying. He'd pulled his service revolver and was aiming at Robinson who was on his knees… pleading for his life. From where he was, Richie could get a good look at what was happening. Then Carter fired and Robinson went over to one side. Richie gulped… this was different than watching that Fed kill Mac and Amanda. This Carter guy knew how to make Robinson's death permanent.

He reached into an equipment bag he'd carried onto the boat and pulled out a wooden handled ax. Richie yelped and dropped the camera as he raced toward Carter and Robinson.

He arrived just as Carter was raising the ax and readying it to strike at the stirring form of the immortal. Richie launched into the air, flinging his arms about Carter and struggling to bring him down. Carter flung him off easily, pounding him into the deck of the boat. "Stay out of this, kid. You don't know what he is!" the cop shouted and turned to strike once more.

By this time, Robinson had re-gained his feet and was ducking and weaving out of the way.

A shot rang out!

Carter paused and turned with an odd look on his face and then staggered to the edge of the boat and fell into the water. From the hillside, Dawson and his man with the rifle were on their way down.

"Hell boy!" Dawson was screaming. "You were supposed to stay out of this."

"And just let him kill him?" Richie screamed back. His lip was bleeding and there was a fair-size goose-egged swelling forming on one side of his head. Absently he wiped the blood and winced slightly as his hand pressed against the contusion.

"I had it planned out. You could have ruined everything!" A van drove up and Richie saw several men alight, dressed to retrieve Carter's floating body from the shallow water between the boat and the slip.

Dawson gestured toward Robinson. "Now get out of here… and remember. You tell no one!" Robinson nodded and left. A few minutes after he'd left, the man with the rifle tossed it off to Dawson. "No one messes with my immortal," the man said. He saluted Richie lightly and followed Robinson.

Richie spat blood. "Ya want the tape in the camera?"

"Yeah. I want the tape… if only to back up my decision before the tribunal."

Richie retrieved it, gave it to Dawson and was headed toward his bike when Dawson called after him. "I meant what I said earlier, kid. You'd make a hell of a Watcher."

Richie flipped him a bird without looking back.

On the way back, Richie had a flat tire. By the time he pushed the bike the remainder of the way to the antique store, it was twilight. He noticed a light in the store, and entered warily.

"There you are," Tessa said and Richie heard a slight hint of anger in her voice.

"We trusted you," Mac said coming up beside Tessa and glaring slightly at Richie.

"Well I had a flat. Hey… how was New York?"

"Fabulous," answered Tessa.

"Don't change the subject. Why weren't you here? Has the store even been open while we were gone?" Mac said, opening the drawer of the sideboard where he kept the cash and swiftly counting it.

"Yeah… but man oh man… It's been a wild few days. See… there was this guy who stole Charlie's car. I chased him but he got away. Then he came looking for you."

Mac's head snapped up. "Looking for me?"

"Carl Robinson," Richie replied and watched the slight smile of reminiscent memory pass over Mac's face.

"Carl stole a car?"

"He and Charlie worked it out. But then there was this cop who wanted to kill him. He had a tattoo."

Mac was glowering by this point. "A Watcher tattoo?"

"Yeah… so I called Dawson and we set a sting to get this guy."

Mac took Richie's arm. "You shouldn't hang around Dawson or his people. It could get you killed."

Richie pointed at the bruise on his forehead. "Yeah… they play rough."

Mac's eyes widened as he clearly saw the bruise for the first time. "Are you all right?"

Tessa grabbed Richie, turning him toward her and lightly brushed her fingers over the bruise. "Does it hurt?"

The bell over the door tinkled. It was Angie.

Richie smiled. "Hey Ang…"

"Don't hey Ang me. You were supposed to call me back! Where have you been?"

Richie paused. He'd called Angie and left a message. That was the last he could recall. "You left a message?"

"Yeah… on the store phone."

Richie glanced over at the answering machine. It was blinking. He'd been so focused on helping Robinson… he'd turned the ringer off and let the machine pick up messages… and then had forgotten to check them. "Sorry… I've been kinda busy."

"Yeah! What's her name?" Angie retorted. Then she shook her head and headed out the door. "I don't know why I'd thought you'd changed."

"Angie… wait," Richie started after her and then glanced back at Mac and Tessa.

Mac grinned. "Well don't stand here… go after her. Grovel. Make it up." He laughed.

"Thanks," Richie closed the door behind him as he went after Angie.

Tessa shook her head. "He'll never learn responsibility. And who is this Carl Robinson?"

"An old friend. I'll quiz Richie more thoroughly tomorrow. Now…" he stepped closer to her, encircling Tessa in his arms and nuzzling her neck, "… about my birthday present."

Tessa laughed as he pulled her into their quarters, turning out the shop lights as they passed the switch.


	31. Epitaph for Tommy, part 1

**31**

_**Epitaph for Tommy**_

"… and that way you guys will have more privacy." _Ouch_! Richie winced at his choice of words.

Mac smirked slightly at them and a teasing grin spread across his face. "Privacy… now why do I think it's not Tess' and my privacy that you're thinking of."

Richie had brought Mac up to the cleared loft above the _dojo_, and had been showing him around, all the while bubbling with the enthusiasm of youth. "Well Charlie thought I could be a night watchman of sorts," Richie tried again. "Or I could pay rent," he finished lamely.

The amusement on Mac's face was apparent. "And how much rent do you think a place like this might bring?"

"Uh… " Richie's face reddened.

"Tell you what. Since you cleaned it up and are willing to work both here and at the store… we'll call it even. But Rich… no more shirking of duties. Right?"

Richie blushed. "Right," he agreed. "Now… any idea where I can get a bed?"

Mac laughed as he left. "You're on your own, Rich."

Downstairs, the Highlander was approached by an uncertain Charlie, "I hope it was okay… suggesting Richie could stay up there?"

"It was fine Charlie. Besides… This way, as his landlord, I can keep an eye on him."

"Yeah… he's a good kid. But he's at that age where he needs to be out and on his own." Charlie elbowed Duncan gently. "Remember those days?"

Duncan nodded, though in truth, his situation as chieftain's son in a world far removed from this modern one, had been very different. At nineteen he'd been old enough to lead men in battle… but not old enough to leave home. And there had been Debra Campbell for whom he still mourned in his own way. Would his life have been different if their parents had allowed them to marry? He shrugged away the memory of Debra falling to her death.

"I'm off to do some roadwork. I'll stop in later to see how he's doing with his decorating and to go over the books." With that, Duncan was off. He liked running in different places. After all, he didn't want to become predictable. A predictable immortal was a dead immortal. But he'd missed doing his roadwork in this last week. First had been the long weekend in New York City with Tessa and then the Christmas rush at the antique store… and then Christmas itself.

There was a bite in the mid-morning air. The promise of snow had not been fulfilled, but it was certainly cold enough. He parked the T-Bird near the closed for the season amusement park, making certain his _katana _was hidden but accessible if need be. Getting out, he stretched as he planned his circuitous route from the car and about the park. He pocketed the car keys and breathed into the cold air as he swung his arms about. His breath was a small fog before him.

Adjusting a knit hat and zipping up his sweat-jacket, Duncan began to run, soon settling into an easy pace and let his mind wander over the events in New York. It had been an enjoyable time. Tessa's art was well received by both critics and the general public. And it did look stunning in the atrium lobby of the corporation. If only the cocktail party that night had gone as smoothly.

He still felt the remnants of Ward Sanderson on him. A fairly young immortal, just reaching his first century, Sanderson had regarded their chance meeting as a chance at a real coup. Duncan had made swift work of him… although the feel of him within him still seemed odd. Just as it had when he'd taken Annie Devlin's head, he'd had the sensation that something was different… something had changed.

He'd insisted to Tessa that they had to cut short the trip and get back. Tessa had not argued. She'd been relieved when he'd returned from the challenge… and patient while he'd sat staring out the window… wondering why he kept seeing a ball bouncing on a white surface and could hear gentle laughter. He'd been in a cold sweat by dawn… but had swiftly showered and they'd flown back.

Back to Seacouver… and an empty store. He'd been worried sick about Richie. The young man had obviously not picked up messages for at least a day. Nor did it appear that anything had been sold. It was only when he'd felt Richie's light pre-immortal presence that he'd relaxed.

Then Richie had hit them this morning with his desire to move out. Whereas he'd been talking about it for some time, his lack of funds had kept the boy securely under Duncan's watchful eye. Richie was chafing for more freedom, and Duncan had to let him have it. He'd been relieved when the subject of the loft had come up. Richie would still be reasonably safe, and where Duncan could reasonably keep an eye on him. He smiled as he ran, thinking just how well Charlie's suggestion to Richie about the loft had met with Duncan's wishes to keep Richie safe.

Part of him was consumed by that thought. He'd known too many immortals who, dying their first death too young, could never keep up. They'd died… one by one… they'd died. True… if Richie died, he'd have a better understanding of the immortal life, but he was still too young!

Duncan's head snapped around as he felt the nearby presence of another immortal. The man was good-sized, might have been a wrestler or body-builder if he'd have desired, light haired, and good-looking. He dropped to the ground in front a Duncan, his sword already in his hand.

Duncan swiftly changed direction and sped up as he raced for the car… his ears tuned to the sound of the following footsteps. They were gaining on him. He dove into the car and came up with his _katana_, which he swung around and managed to block the other man's stroke.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Duncan uttered strongly.

The other man backed up and bowed mockingly. "Anthony Gallen."

"We don't have to do this."

Gallen looked at his watch and smirked. "Oh… I have time." With that… he attacked again and Duncan found himself hard-pressed and slowly backing up as tried to assess his opponent's style as well as his strengths and weaknesses. The man was well trained, and the battle was even. It could go either way. There were moments in this battle that reminded him of the one with Grayson… a duel to the death that would ask everything of both participants.

When his _katana_ went flying, Duncan ducked and rolled as he tried to get to it before Gallen could land a killing stroke. As it was, the disarming blow had sliced into his Duncan's hand and his palm was slick with blood. Thankfully the cut was already healing.

Reaching the _katana_, he held it up and then shifted it. Gallen was attacking in a different style from the earlier one. He was ready for Duncan's block. Duncan pulled in and then launched his own attack… slowly forcing Gallen back. The other immortal jumped a low fence and began to back slowly up the roller coaster. Duncan followed. The sounds of their blades as they clashed, peppering the air with an acknowledgment of the life and death struggle being played out this cold December morning.

When Duncan heard an approaching car, he noted that Gallen looked up at it and smiled. Duncan tried to force the battle and end it. Gallen evaded the blow.

"Another time, Highlander!" he said and hopped to the ground.

Meanwhile, the young man staring at them was calling out to them about what were they doing. Duncan lowered his _katana_ and held it behind him, uncertain as to what to say. Gallen had vanished. Duncan smiled and shrugged with a slight gesture, as if to say, just a friendly contest, but he knew that they had looked odd.

Just then a car, with Gallen at the wheel, peeled out from where it was parked some distance away… striking the young man as it left the otherwise empty park. Duncan screamed a warning and a denial. Despite his best efforts… people around him died.

He leaped to the ground and approached the body. The man seemed so still and cold. Duncan felt for a pulse, but not feeling it, began CPR. Perhaps it wasn't too late. Perhaps there was still a chance. He focused on the chest compressions, followed by mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and then repeated the movements. For a moment he heard the sounds of artillery going off around him, as he seemed to be once more on the fields of battle.

The man gasped. His eyes looked about wildly and he clutched at Duncan's jacket. Blood burbled from his mouth as his jaw worked up and down, desperately trying to say something. But no words came out. The man collapsed once more… and Duncan realized that he was too badly hurt to survive. He sat back on his heels and looked about. No one was about. He could leave. He could not really be a witness to another strange death. He didn't need the local police looking into his activities and his life again. Duncan closed his eyes. Nor could he leave. He reached out and closed the young man's eyes and dug for a wallet. The man's name was Tommy Bannen. Then Duncan rose and returned to his car where he dug for his mobile phone.

-----

"You did all you could," Tessa remarked softly as she settled onto the arm of the easy chair where Duncan was brooding. "You tried to save his life."

"I failed him, just as I've failed so many others."

"You're thinking of Darius again," Tessa replied.

Was he? Odd… he seemed to have come to an acceptance of Darius' loss since he'd killed James Horton. Or was the injustice of Darius' death still simmering below the surface. Was that why his relationship with Dawson was adversarial at best? Was that why he'd been angry with Richie for involving the Watcher in helping Carl Robinson? Why did he feel like he should have been here… that Robinson's vanishing again into the underbelly of society was a result of his not being here? What more could he have done? What more should he have done?

Why was this young man in the park? Why had he happened upon the combatants? Visions of a young woman getting between Duncan and an opponent flashed across his memory. Mortals are so fragile. Things happened that he couldn't control. Things happened and mortals died. He instinctively hugged Tessa's waist… aware that he feared for her life more than he feared for anything else. Yet they'd made the decision together. She wanted to be here. He couldn't imagine life without her. He swallowed nervously as the bell over the shop door jingled. He groaned as he saw who it was.

"Miss McFarland," Tessa said graciously as she smoothly stood and crossed to Randi, effectively inserting herself between the reporter and her prey.

"Hey MacLeod. Heard your name again on the police scanner. I've come for a statement." Thankfully she had no cameraman with her.

Duncan looked away. "No comment," he said darkly.

"Come on MacLeod. Don't leave it like that. We're friends."

"Is that what we are?" he said. He lowered his chin to his upraised hand and rested on it. He really did not want to talk to her.

"Yeah… you and me like Bernstein and Deep Throat. You're the source with the inside dope."

"He doesn't know anything. He just saw this man run down by a car. He was just in the right place at the right time."

"But the description of the car… black sedan… isn't real helpful. Surely you saw something else MacLeod. I'm here to jog your memory."

Tessa firmly clasped Randi's arm and steered her toward the door. "I think not. If there's any jogging to be done, I'll do it. Don't call us… we'll call you." She propelled Randi through the open door, slammed it and locked it. Outside Randi McFarland was steaming.

Turning back to her husband, Tessa smiled. "See… I can be helpful."

Duncan chuckled. She obviously knew what he was brooding about.

"I can soothe your worried brow," Tessa said as she silkily rubbed her long fingers over his forehead and kissed it gently. "Let me help."

Duncan looked at her with a smile. "What did you have in mind?"

Tessa settled once more on the arm of the chair. "I know you too well. You won't forget this until you find out how Gallen knew how to find you, you find him, and take his head. You want him to pay for Tommy Bannen's death."

"Am I that transparent?"

"You are to me. Now… Why was Bannen in the park? Who was he? What did he do? Did he have a reason for being there… or was he merely drawn in by chance when he heard the battle?"

Duncan stared at the floor as he thought. "I assumed he was there by chance. But what if he were meeting someone?"

"Precisely. Now let me help you find out what he was up to." She smiled warmly.

"I don't want Gallen's presence putting you in danger," Duncan replied. He gazed up at her with his brown eyes wide with worry.

"And I don't want his presence to hurt you. We're together in this Mac… whatever happens. Now… what do we do?"

Duncan couldn't help but chuckle. She was fearless and protective this wife of his. No wonder he adored her. No wonder he'd be lost without her. He bit his upper lip while he thought. "The police said Bannen was a newsman. He worked for a local paper… a gossip rag."

"Then why don't I snoop around. I can be discreet. Unless you'd rather I let Miss McFarland back in?"

"God no!" Duncan chuckled, feeling a touch of levity in his life that sought to dispel his guilt at the young man's death.

"Good. I don't like sharing you."

Duncan's smile deepened. "On the other hand…" he teased and laughed as Tessa pushed at his chest and then leaned in for long, lingering kiss… a kiss so real, that for a moment… it encompassed his whole world.

Outside, Randi McFarland smiled darkly as she returned to the waiting van.

"No go… huh?" Donnie smirked as he re-stowed the camera.

"Not this time. But what do we know about Bannen? He was a stringer for a local paper. Not on the payroll so much as special assignments."

Randi slumped in the seat. "Hmmmmmm. Maybe I should investigate the investigator?" she glanced at Donnie and winked.

"Wouldn't you be a little too well-know? I mean… your lovely face is all over the nightly news these days."

Randi dropped her head into one hand with a sigh. "You're right. I need to be a little more circumspect. But I have this feeling Donnie that Bannen was on to whatever MacLeod's secret was. All I have to do is follow his trail."

"Providing he left one."

"He had to have. He was a reporter."

By this time, Donnie had slid behind the wheel and started the van, "Or at least a reporter wannabe."

"Let's head back to the studio. I want to do a little investigating from there. Then I might also want to interview his family. Bannen did have family, didn't he?"

"A mother, I think."

Randi smiled hungrily. "A mother. Can you see it now… a sob story… a grieving mother… an intrepid reporter out to discover the truth and give her son peace. Gotta love it!"

Donnie said nothing, merely rolled his eyes. When Randi was on the trail of a story… he knew better than to protest or make disparaging remarks… even if she was on this MacLeod guy's back again. Turning into traffic, he accelerated slightly and hummed the theme of **_Gilligan's Island_** as he drove back to the station.


	32. Epitaph for Tommey, part 2

**32**

_**Epitaph for Tommy, part 2**_

Tommy Bannen's funeral was on Thursday. While Duncan made plans to attend, as the last person to see Tommy alive and to pay his respects, Tessa made arrangements to visit the newspaper offices where Tommy had worked.

She dressed for the occasion… white linen suit, the skirt hem above the knee… the cut tight… very tight… and a touch of royal blue silk peeking out from the plunging neckline of the snug jacket. She fluffed her blonde hair before entering the building, aware as she passed that several men paused in their activities to stare at her. It was exactly the effect that she was going for.

"Excuse me," she purred as she leaned over the desk of one of the reporters on the second floor. "I'm looking for Tommy Bannen's desk. I'm his cousin. I'm here to clear out his personal things."

The reporter's mouth dropped open as he ogled her. "Bannen?" He finally managed to say. "Uh… don't think I know him." He continued to stare.

Tessa smiled and looked about the room. There were, perhaps, a dozen reporters all hunched over their computer terminals. A few still had typewriters on their desks. The changeover to computers had not completely taken effect and some of them obviously still liked the feel of typing copy and ripping it from the roller as they finished it.

"Perhaps one of your friends could show me?" Tessa said with another smile.

"Uh… yeah. Riley?"

An older man with a fringe of salt and pepper hair about his head, looked up from his screen.

"You know a Bannen?"

Riley thought a moment, snaking his hand into a bag of pretzels to nab a few while he thought. "I think that was that guy in special projects. The one the old man hired." He then flashed a smile at Tessa, turning beet red as he did so.

"And his desk?" Tessa prompted them both.

"Didn't have one," Riley munched as he watched the way her jacket rose and fell with each breath. "He worked from home."

"Odd," Tessa shook her head as if puzzled. "He told us he had some things here." She inched in his direction until she stood over him.

"You might try checking with Deb up in personnel. She'd know!" a flustered Riley finally said.

"Deb… in personnel?" Tessa looked around as if searching for her.

"Fourth floor," the first reporter added.

"Fourth floor." Tessa smoothed her skirt and sauntered toward the elevator, certain she had the eyes of several on her. She pushed the button and waited. The doors opened and her eyes widened.

Randi MacFarland stared out at her. She'd been rummaging in her satchel when the car doors had opened. She met Tessa's wide gaze with one of her own.

Tessa stepped into the car as the doors closed. "Fancy meeting you here," she said keeping her eyes focused on the closed doors.

"Yeah," Randi agreed. "Although I'm not really surprised. You here to make certain that whatever Bannen had on MacLeod does not end up in someone else's hands? Someone like me?"

Tessa looked at Randi with disdain. "Bannen wasn't investigating Mac. How many times do we have to tell you that you're chasing an illusion? There is nothing there."

"Hah! I'm an investigative journalist. I know when there is a story there." She tapped her nose. "I have a nose for a story."

"You have a nose that tends to butt into things that are none of your business," Tessa sniffed as she returned to regarding the car doors. The elevator slowed to a stop. The doors opened and both women stepped out onto the fourth floor.

They nearly shoved one another in their haste to reach the desk in the forefront that had a nameplate on it that read "Deb Brown." The African-American woman seated at the desk regarded them both with amusement. "What is this? The attack of the blonde reporters?" she smirked.

"No," began Randi and then paused with a smile. "You know who I am?"

"Watch you every night," Deb laughed. "Who's your friend?"

Tessa smiled. "A friend of Tommy Bannen's family. I'm here for his things."

Deb gave them both a blank look. "Tommy Bannen?"

Tessa sighed. She hated giving Randi any additional information. "He was on special assignment. He was killed in a tragic hit-an-run accident a few days ago."

Deb continued to file her nails as she thought carefully. "I don't recall a Bannen. But if he were on special assignment… his file wouldn't have crossed my desk. You might try payroll."

"And payroll?" Tessa said with a smile.

"Basement," answered Randi and pulled Tessa along with her back to the elevator. "Honestly… didn't you check out this place before barging in here."

"For your information… I didn't barge in. I came in purely to get some things for Tommy's mother."

"Have you met her?"

Tessa felt the flush creep over her cheeks. "Well… no."

"She's not seeing anyone. Believe me I tried. The funeral's later today. I was gonna try again later at the cemetery."

"You really don't have any respect for others do you?" Tessa sniffed.

"Sure I do… but not when it lies in the way of my getting the truth. The people have a right to know."

Tessa rounded on her. "And people have a right to grieve."

Randi shrugged. "Which is why I'm not at the funeral. But I bet MacLeod is… isn't he?"

Tessa looked away.

"I was right," trumpeted Randi. "Bannen did have something on MacLeod!"

"No comment," replied Tessa bitterly.

"Hah! Thought so!"

The doors opened on the bottom floor. The two women stepped out into a florescent-lit hallway of white tile. Across from the elevator was metal door labeled "Payroll".

Randi grabbed Tessa's arm. "Listen. If we're going to get anything… we have to work together. Deal?"

Tessa paused, holding her breath. "Deal," she finally nodded.

"Follow my lead," Randi grinned. "I'm the expert." She opened the door and strode into payroll as if she owned the place.

-----

Meanwhile, Duncan arrived at the funeral home. Noting the lack of vehicles parked there, he decided to wait in the car. He observed what was obviously a police car parked at one end of the lot with two plainclothes detectives in it. They were evidently checking on who showed up at the funeral. They were likely bored.

Duncan tapped his fingers on the door of his Thunderbird while he waited. Finally the hearse pulled out and one car followed it. That was all… one car. Likely Bannen's mother being driven by one the mortuary's drivers. No mourners. No one was here to pay tribute to a life snuffed out for no reason. No one cared. Duncan felt ever more heavily the pain of a mortal life lost as a result of the game that immortals play. Tommy Bannen… in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He waited until the squad car left, and then headed to the cemetery. He parked some distance away and watched as the casket was lowered into the ground. Tommy's mother stood stiffly by the graveside, refusing to leave until the grave was filled in. Duncan found he respected such dedication. It called to mind the practices of his youth… how the women would gather to wash the bodies of the dead, prepare them, and stand by until the body was fully committed to the ground. He smiled at the thought. He could see his mother standing there for a moment, a bit of heather in her hand as she gazed down on the grave of his father. He'd watched from a distance as he was watching now.

Everyone left. He stepped forward, prayed a moment quietly over Bannen's new grave, wishing his soul safe journey, and then turned toward the young man's mother.

When she spoke to him, he heard the pipes of the past as her Highland brogue trilled from her and swept him home for a moment. When he answered her, his own brogue reasserted itself and they spoke of pleasant things… as well as Tommy.

A limo pulled up. Betty Bannen, for that was her name, made a remark about the blonde beauty that stepped from the car to pay a moment's respect before leaving again.

"She's a busy one. She'll not call… though Tommy liked her he did," Betty laughed as the limo vanished over the rise of the cemetery lawn.

Duncan nodded, having caught the fake tone and mumbled pleasantries of Suzanne Honniger, daughter of newspaper magnate Michael Honniger… Tommy's boss. Duncan smiled to himself and wondered what more was going on behind the scenes than the boss's daughter being involved with a lowly reporter. He spoke a while longer with Betsy, before giving her his card. "Call me if you need anything," he told her, resisting the sudden urge he had to kiss her cheek as he might have done for his mother. Instead, he pressed his hand about hers, letting it linger a moment as the pipes in his memory began to fade away.

By the time he'd returned to the store, Tessa had also returned. But sitting in their kitchen and laughing with her was Randi MacFarland.

"Is there something I missed?" he asked as he leaned over to give Tessa a kiss on the cheek.

"Tess and I make a great team," laughed Randi.

"Yes… like Tracy and Hepburn," laughed Tessa.

Duncan raised an eyebrow. Pouring a cup of coffee, he turned a chair around backwards and straddled it. "So what did you two intrepid reporters discover?"

This caused both of them to laugh uncontrollably for a moment. Duncan sipped at the strong coffee and eyed them both with amusement. Whatever it was… it had to be good.

Tessa straightened in her chair. "We ran into one another at the newspaper office."

"So I gather," he murmured.

"Neither one of us could get anywhere with them on our own," Randi added. "So we worked together. Turns out almost no one at the office knew Tommy Bannen, despite the fact that he'd been working there for over a year."

"But on special assignment," murmured Tessa. "A special assignment that recently paid $25,000."

Duncan's eyes widened.

Randi shifted in her seat. "Listen MacLeod. No reporter gets paid that kind of money for a story. And that's not all."

"It turns out," Tessa nodded, "that he'd drawn another $25,000 the previous month."

"$50,000?" mused Duncan. "Who was he supposed to kill?"

"That's what we wondered," Randi said. "I discovered he had a gun permit. What if he wasn't at the amusement park by accident? You said that car came out of nowhere, right?"

Duncan nodded. He had to be careful here. He couldn't tell her about his and Gallen's fight… and how Gallen had leaped off the roller coaster when he'd seen Tommy. Maybe he hadn't been there by coincidence. "Possibly. I was there for roadwork, as I told the police. Bannen was dressed in a suit and tie. But there was nothing in his overcoat…" For a moment… Duncan had the flash of something flying through the air after Bannen had been hit. "There was no gun," he finished quickly.

"Did the police search the area?" Randi said thoughtfully.

Duncan shrugged and lied. "I'm certain they did."

"Well it's getting dark," Randi said with a curt nod toward the window. "I'll check the area out in the morning."

Duncan shrugged again. "Suit yourself."

"Night MacLeod. Night Tessa… and we'll talk… soon." Randi rose with a smile and sauntered toward the door. Tessa followed to let her out. Duncan could hear them chatting like old friends and laughing before Randi left.

When Tessa returned, smiling knowingly, Duncan asked, "So what exactly did the two of you do at that newspaper office?"

"Oh… you know, befuddle men's minds, ask questions, play the dumb blonde, smart blonde routine." She smiled more widely, a hint of teasing in her expression.

"Oh… that routine." Duncan glanced at the door. "Let me guess… you were the dumb blonde?"

"Oh you!" Tessa playfully slapped his arm. She sighed. "But yes. Randi couldn't manage the dumb blonde if she tried. She's a very smart lady."

"Too smart. I don't like her sniffing around."

"Easy Mac. I won't tell her anything. But if I keep pushing her away… she'll keep pushing back. I have to assure her… assuage her fears… that you were not the intended target… nor that you have some deep, dark secret."

"About that, I want to call Richie."

"I already did." Tessa smiled. "You wanted him to check out the amusement park area didn't you?"

Duncan nodded as Tessa slipped onto his lap and placed her arms about his neck. "I called him earlier."

"He won't know where to look. And it's dark," Duncan protested.

"And Randi MacFarland is likely set up outside, waiting to see if you race off to the amusement park tonight." Tessa leaned in and let her lips brush his.

"When did you get so devious?" he teased and tried to nibble her lips.

She pulled back slightly. "Oh… I've always been devious. I landed you didn't I?" Then she leaned forward.

An hour later, Richie showed up on his bike. "I hope you guys appreciate this. I had a date with Angie. I was gonna show her my new place."

"Did you find anything?" Duncan insisted.

"You tell me." Richie laid the leather satchel on the table.

Duncan opened it and pulled out a gun. Then he pulled out some papers… and a photograph of Anthony Gallen. "He wasn't after me. He was after Gallen. But why?" He sifted through the documents. "Honniger must have hired him to kill Gallen." He looked up. Again… why?"

"But if Gallen were the target… shooting him wouldn't kill him," Tessa added with a shake of her head.

"And this guy Honniger is a millionaire. He's a pillar of society. Why would he hire a hit man?"

Duncan shook his head. "Tommy's mother spoke of his wanting to be a reporter since he was in grammar school. He was excited about his job. He'd told her that he would soon have a by-line. I don't think he was a hit man."

"But maybe he sold himself to get that by-line," Tessa suggested. "You know… do me a favor… kill this man and I'll give you your own column."

"And $50,000 to boot," nodded Duncan.

"Exactly!"

"Wait a minute," Richie said. This Bannen guy was paid $50,000? Why can't I get that kind of dough?"

Duncan cupped Richie's jaw and shook it. "Because you've gone straight and you're not a juvenile delinquent any longer."

"Oh… yeah… that." Richie grinned. "I knew there was a reason I was broke."

"I need to talk to Honniger." Duncan said. "I think I'll pay a call on the esteemed businessman tomorrow."

"So that's it?" Richie said. He picked up his helmet. "I can go now?"

Tessa leaned over to kiss the tip of his nose. "You can go now. And give Angie my best."

Richie smirked as he pulled the helmet on. "That is if she's still talking to me. I gotta stop breaking dates with her." He gave them a wave as he left out the back.

Duncan sifted again through the papers.

"So what else is in them?"

"I don't know. I don't see anything. Most of these are printouts of various columns that Bannen had written. He's really quite a good writer." He turned the photo of Gallen over. "Amusement Park, 9:00 a.m." He looked up at Tessa. "That cinches it. He knew where Gallen was going to be and when. And I think Gallen was waiting on him. Our meeting was purely chance."

"Then Gallen killed Bannen before Bannen could shoot him?"

Duncan nodded. "What I don't understand yet is why? It still doesn't make sense."

"Then come to bed, Mac. You can talk to Honniger tomorrow." Tessa pulled him up from the chair and playfully led him toward their bedroom. "This _femme fatal_ wants to be properly paid for this day's skullduggery."

"Did I promise you something?"

"You did indeed," Tessa laughed and whispered in his ear.

Duncan grinned widely. "Oh… that. Whatever m'lady wishes."

"M'lady wishes."


	33. Epitaph for Tommy, part 3

**33**

_**Epitaph for Tommy, part 3**_

The morning paper opened on the bar caught Duncan's attention. He stared at it thoughtfully. **_Newspaperman Murdered_** read the big bold headline on the front page. He continued reading through the obituary and the associated stories as Tessa buzzed about the kitchen, chatting merrily.

"I know what Gallen's plan was," Duncan said finally.

"Oh?" Tessa turned. He smiled at her get-up. She was wearing a frilly apron and nothing else. Without Richie here… she'd decided to dress down this morning. He smiled at her… wishing that the ruffles on the apron's top were not so big.

"Honninger must have been his real target… but why? And what about Tommy?"

"Tommy was being paid for something. Maybe it was to kill Gallen," Tessa suggested.

Duncan reached out and twirled her into an embrace. "My thoughts exactly."

She laughed and threw her head back so that her exposed neck was open to his lingering kiss. Suddenly he stopped and turned back to the article. "Odd… it says his daughter is taking over the business."

"Well she should… shouldn't she?" Tessa mused and continued making pancakes.

'But this reads so cut and dry. It's almost as if this were prepared in advance."

"Don't many papers write obituaries early and keep them on file until they're needed?"

Duncan nodded. "Not that part… the part about her taking over. I need to talk with her. I wonder if I could get the chance at her father's funeral. It says here that the body is at **_Corman Bros_**. I might go by there later today during the visitation.

"Is that wise?" Tessa said. "What if the killer is there?"

Duncan smiled. "That's what I'm hoping. I might want another meeting with Mr. Anthony Gallen."

-----

Later that afternoon, Duncan arrived at the funeral home. Unlike Tommy Bannen's funeral, this one was packed with people all offering their condolences. Evidently Honniger had been very well liked. Duncan entered quietly assessing the milling crowds and the obvious police presence and tried to fit in and be unobtrusive.

A hand went about his arm. "I just knew you'd come," Randi grinned at him.

"You've got me. I'm transparent. Honniger knew my secret and I had to shut him up," he said sarcastically.

Randi rolled her eyes. "I have a feeling if he knew your secret… he'd have published it in a special section."

"You might be right," mumbled Duncan.

"What?"

"I said that light's bright," he told her. With her on his arm, he might make it past the police without a second glance, but this might interfere with his seeing the grieving daughter.

"So… shall we pay our respects?" Randi asked, still clutching his arm tightly.

"Whatever you say, darling," he teased. He might as well play along with her. Like Tessa had said, they might get her to back off some if they stopped pushing her away as if they had something to hide. Although… Duncan didn't think anything would ever cause Randi McFarland to back off of a story once she had it in her sights.

At the front of the graciously appointed room, Suzanne Honniger looked spectacular in her tight black suit. Her blonde hair was swept up behind her in a flattering and yet somehow cold twist. She looked elegant and her grief looked studied… as if she'd prepared for this afternoon by watching her reactions to things in a mirror.

She was chatting with the mayor and laughing a little too loudly at his jest, while carefully dabbing at eyes that seemed, at least to Duncan, to be devoid of tears. Was she the villain of this little adventure? Had she hired Gallen to kill her father so that she could take over the business? What kind of monster was she?

"Why Mr. MacLeod, so nice of you to come," she said with a thin smile and held out a hand for him to grasp.

"I'd hoped to have that long talk with your father… about antiques," he said. "I'm surprised you recall my name."

Suzanne laughed. "What kind of reporter would I be if I didn't keep facts straight?" Then she sobered slightly as she evidently recognized Randi. "And the TV personalities."

"Just a reporter," Randi smiled. "So sorry about your loss." She took Suzanne's hand and held it a moment.

"The TV newsreaders are hardly reporters," Suzanne murmured as she pulled her hand free. "My daddy always said print journalists do the work and TV gets the glory."

Duncan could sense Randi building up to a retort. "Now darling," he said, "this isn't the place."

Randi glared at him but then nodded. "Your father was an inspiration to all reporters," Randi finally said as Duncan steered her off to one side to ostensibly look at a floral arrangement. "If she's grieving… I'm a natural blonde. She's way too happy underneath that air of grief."

"I think you're right," Duncan replied.

"This is a first MacLeod. You and me agreeing about something."

Duncan sighed and gazed intently at her. "We agree about many things Randi. What we don't agree about is you insinuating yourself into people's lives to get a story… especially if there isn't one there."

Randi chuckled slightly. "But if there is one there… " She let the words hang between them.

Duncan shook his head and then started as he felt an immortal presence in the room. He looked up and about sharply.

"What is it?" Randi asked. She, too, looked around.

Anthony Gallen was on the far side of the viewing room. Even from here Duncan could see the smug look on his face. He was expensively dressed, his overcoat was made of fine cashmere and his suit and tie shouted "expensive" and "tailor-made". Seeing MacLeod, Gallen saluted him lightly as if tipping his hat to him.

"Nothing," Duncan replied to Randi. "I just thought I heard a voice I recognized."

"In this babble?" Randi said. Then she spotted Gallen. "Ooh… nice looking." She stared at Duncan and followed his gaze to Gallen. "Friend of yours?"

"Duncan sniffed and shook his head. "Friend. No. I did encounter him a few days ago."

"Really?" asked Randi. "Where? Or should I ask him?"

Duncan pulled sharply at her arm as he said with gritted teeth. "Stay away from him."

"Who is he?"

Duncan sighed. "I'm not certain… but I think he may be the man who killed Honniger." Even then he wondered if he were saying too much. The funeral home wasn't holy ground… or was it? Services were held here… but it wasn't so much a place of worship as a place of business. Still… with the number of people here, surely Gallen wouldn't try anything.

"Wait here," he ordered and turned to leave.

"Not on your life," Randi replied. "Where you go… I go."

"No!" he said, raising his voice and then smiling as several people glanced in their direction. "Randi, listen to me. If this man is who I think he is… if he did what I think he did… he'd have no qualms about killing you or half a dozen other people. Now stay here while I…"

"While you talk to him and get yourself killed?" Randi mused with a smirk. She waved a hand before her as if she held a fan. "And poor little me… the defenseless woman must be kept safe." She dropped her hand. "Get with it MacLeod. This is the Twentieth Century! Women are not fragile!"

Duncan nearly chuckled, recalling Tessa saying much the same thing to him once. "Please Randi. I don't want to put you in danger. Now stay here." He gave her a meaningful glance and then crossed the viewing room.

"Duncan MacLeod," Gallen said smoothly. "Somehow I thought you'd be here." Both of his hands were in his trouser pockets and he rocked back and forth slightly, very amused.

"Did you want to continue our little party?" Duncan said, standing beside him and crossing his arms before him. Both men watched the crowd, not each other.

Gallen laughed. "In front of all these people?"

"You name the time and the place. You killed Bannen and you killed Honniger."

"Prove it," Gallen chuckled.

"I saw you run Bannen down. Why? Was he after you?"

"The little twerp was hired by Honniger to kill me. Isn't that a laugh?"

"Then why not let him and move on?"

"I don't like people messing with me. Look at this crowd paying court to that man's memory as if he were some sort of saint. He was a ruthless businessman. He would have had me killed without batting an eye."

"Why?"

Gallen laughed again as he turned toward MacLeod. "Oh you really are one of the good guys. What is it about some of us that try so hard to protect these mortals? They're unimportant in the grand scheme of things."

"They're people!" Duncan said darkly as he turned to face Gallen.

"People. Yes. Human beings who embrace all the darkest desires of the human heart and stab each other in the back. Rather like our grieving Suzanne there."

"She hired you to kill her father."

"Clever boy. I'll give you points for that. Ever read **_King Lear_**?" when Duncan nodded. Gallen quoted, "_How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child_." He sighed. "She's the epitome of that sentiment… but she pays well."

"So when and where?" Duncan said.

Gallen laughed. "Cutting to the chase are we? And I get to choose? My you do believe in the rules."

"All right then… later tonight… back at the amusement park. Let's finish this."

Gallen chuckled. "I may have a previous engagement tonight… but I'll be in touch." He pivoted and sauntered out.

Duncan was still trying to get his anger under control when Randi stepped to his side. "All right… I waited. Now tell me what he said."

"He quoted Shakespeare," replied Duncan. "**_King Lear_**. Ever read it?"

"Yeah… it's about a king who lived too long and was betrayed by his daughters." Randi turned back towards Suzanne. The two were staring across the room at one another. "Damn," Randi whispered. "She did do it. So how do we prove it?"

Duncan took Randi's arm and steered her toward the door. "We don't do anything. At this point, it's just hearsay. Why don't you go back to the station and check into Suzanne Honniger's background?"

"And what will you be doing?"

"Me? I intend on going home."

"In a pig's eye!" she replied. "You're gonna follow him."

Duncan stopped and shook his head. "No… I'm not following him." He smiled thinly at Randi. "Now please Randi… go back to the station. Do the research and let's nail Suzanne Honniger."

He saw her to her car and stood his ground while she drove off. Then he contemplated whether or not he should go to the amusement park and wait for Gallen. Well he'd challenged. He'd go. And if Gallen didn't show… he'd hunt him down. Not for the game, not for his head… but for all the Tommy Bannens in the world.

-----


	34. Epitaph for Tommy, part 4

**34**

_**Epitaph for Tommy, part 4**_

A cold, stiff wind blew over the deserted amusement park. In the darkness, Duncan could hear the rattling of the chains holding seats on one ride and the groan and occasional buckle of metal awnings around him. The breeze off the sound held the promise of snow.

He shivered in the dark and silent **_T-bird_** and blew on his gloved hands. He was getting stiff just sitting here waiting for midnight and his appointment with Gallen who was, he figured, ensconced someplace warm with a drink in his hand and a girl on his knee.

"He's not coming," grumbled the Highlander as he stretched his legs beneath the steering column. Nevertheless, he'd wait for midnight… and then a bit more.

It was therefore a surprise when, at the stroke of twelve, a car approached, parked and shut off its lights. Duncan could feel him. He took a deep, cleansing breath and climbed out, stomping his cold feet and limbering up in the process.

"I was on my way out of town," he heard Gallen laugh. "Then I thought… why not? We should always finish what we start." He chuckled and tossed his overcoat into the front seat of his car and slammed the door. Duncan could see light reflect off the man's sword. The man moved easily, cat-like and obviously ready for this fight.

Duncan stood free of the car and grinned as he lifted his _katana_ with both hands and swept it before him before holding it over his head in a strike position. His movements were fluid and showed his readiness despite the cold. Gallen laughed and bowed slightly, skipping a bit when he did so. He seemed greatly amused. Posturing with his sword he and the Highlander began to circle one another… their eyes focused on the other's moves and changes of position.

Again and again they circled. Then, as if both had suddenly found what they needed they attacked as one. Blow after blow rang in the darkness as the two men attempted to gain an advantage over each other. Again and again, sparks showered about them as the opponent deflected the other's blows. Attack, lunge, parry, turn, shift, attack, shift, parry, and lunge. The movements became a dull litany in Duncan's mind… one he kept altering to reflect Gallen's moves and to try and gain an advantage that would allow him to survive this challenge.

After each set of blows and moves, the two men, heavily perspiring despite the cold, backed away to catch their breath. Each man had landed several cutting blows on the other… none fatal or crippling. Each had managed to hit the other, not just with sword, but also with fist and foot. Dirt and healing bruises covered exposed skin. Clothes were sliced and bloody where swords had made their mark.

Duncan spit blood during one pause, happy to see his opponent do the same. This fight could go on as long as one of them did not make a fatal mistake. Thoughts of Tessa awaiting his return flittered briefly through the Highlander's mind as he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. He'd jumped up on the chair ride and was threading his way amongst some of the seats. Movement and seeking an advantage of terrain was always good. He knew not to just remain in one spot. If he could draw Galen in… he might gain the advantage.

Gallen, however, seemed to know, and his changes in location and movement showed that he was attempting to pull Duncan in and gain an advantage. At times… it seemed that the two men might have been reading each other's minds. Perhaps they were… or at least their opponent's intentions in their movements. Throughout the deserted amusement park they traveled, their blades ringing in the force of their blows.

A sudden kick to his chin, that made it through his defenses, sent Duncan spiraling onto his knees. Quickly he rolled and managed to come back up with his _katana_ overhead to block Gallen's advantage. The other immortal slammed four blows down attempting to get past Duncan's blade before he snarled and backed away. He was gasping for breath.

"Not exactly a walk in the park," Duncan managed to gasp between his own attempts to ease the burning in his lungs. He managed to get to his feet and crouched, waiting.

Gallen grinned and nodded. He wiped sweat and dirt from his face with one hand. "Just getting warmed up," he replied with the same effort. Talking for either of them was an effort… and an effort better put into gaining an advantage.

Headlights played over them!

Both men looked up at them… startled.

Swiftly each man moved his sword behind his back while still keeping an eye on the other.

"MacLeod?" called out Randi McFarland as she exited her car. "What are you doing?"

Gallen hissed. "Another time, Highlander." He raced toward a low barrier, vaulted it and was in his car and driving off before Duncan could get to him.

Angrily he turned on Randi. "What are you doing here?"

"Good God MacLeod. Were you two fighting with swords? You look awful."

"You shouldn't have come!" he snapped as he watched the taillights of Gallen's car vanish.

"Looks like I saved your life… or at least prevented a maiming," she retorted. She pulled off her knit scarf and sought to blot the blood she saw on one of his arms.

He snatched it away with a growl.

She grabbed it back… and then gasped as she wiped at it.

Seething, Duncan watched her face. There was no help for it now.

"We have to get that guy MacLeod… but why the swords?" She dabbed the healing wound again and then glanced at him with puzzlement. "What's happening here?"

Duncan let out a sharp breath. "You're a smart girl Randi. You figure it out."

Randi wiped again at the wound, watching again as it healed. "Dr. Wilder," she whispered and met his gaze. "That's why Wilder kidnapped you last winter after your auto accident. He saw this and wanted to run tests."

Duncan nodded curtly.

Randi glanced in the direction of Gallen's car. "He's the same, isn't he?" She met Duncan's stern gaze. He nodded again, still saying nothing… waiting for her to puzzle it out. She had all the pieces now… or at least most of them.

Randi backed away a step. "What are you? Some sort of government experiment in fast-healing techniques? You two and Grayson last year were all part of some conspiracy. That explains what happened in the courthouse last year. Word was there was a tape of you getting your brains blown out by Bryan Slade… a tape that vanished."

Duncan smiled slightly. "Not exactly… but close."

"How close," she said stepping closer to him.

"I was born this way… as was Gallen."

"And Grayson?"

"And Grayson."

"Holy cow, MacLeod, this is the story of the century. I'll win a Pulitzer."

Duncan grabbed her. "You can't tell anyone."

"Why the hell not… Oh… Wilder." Randi's voice suddenly understood. "If people knew about you… they'd hunt you, capture you, keep you for tests."

"Yes," he said softly. "Now you know what I didn't want you to know. I only want a quiet life with Tessa."

Randi still seemed stun. "Wait. Why the swords?"

Duncan shrugged.

"You _can_ lose body parts," she puzzled out.

He nodded.

"But then he's a cripple ultra-healer. No… wait… that doesn't make sense. He can't go to jail as his cover is blown… but gunshots won't kill him…" She suddenly looked up again and stared into Duncan's brown eyes. "You know how to kill each other… it has to do with cutting off…" again she tried to think. Finally she shuddered as she looked at him sadly. "Heads."

Duncan sighed and nodded.

A movement to his right caused him to look up and see Watcher Joe Dawson standing there, leaning on his cane, his black coat flapping in the wind, his gray hair blowing. "Maybe I can help, MacLeod. We're used to handling witnesses."

"Dawson," Duncan said darkly. "Out recruiting?"

Dawson chuckled. "No… out Watching. It's what we do."

"You knew about this!" Randi shouted as she closed in on Dawson. Then she turned back to Duncan and covered her mouth. "It really is a conspiracy. The others are renegades and the government is having you hunt them down."

Both Duncan and Joe laughed at that. "Not quite Miss McFarland," added Joe as he took her arm. "Come with me, I have a story to tell you." He winked at Duncan. "Call it damage control."

Duncan nodded and left them, eager to get away… eager for home and Tessa. Hopefully Dawson's explanation would satisfy Randi McFarland… but somehow… he doubted it.

-----

Leaning over the kitchen counter, Duncan once more found himself checking out the morning paper. He saw nothing regarding his story to Randi McFarland last night. Nor was there anything on the morning local television news. What he didn't know was if she were saving it up for a story tonight… or if Dawson had managed to contain the situation.

As if in answer to his thoughts, there was a knock at the back door. It was Dawson. Duncan let him in and offered him a seat and a cup of coffee.

"No thanks," Dawson said with a wave of his hand. "I can't stay. Just wanted you to know that Miss Randi McFarland is currently on ice at one of our facilities."

"You didn't kill her did you?" Duncan asked, paling slightly at the thought.

Dawson laughed as he leaned both hands on his cane. "No MacLeod… we don't kill witnesses. Let's just say she and we are having some long conversations. I don't think she'll betray your secret."

"What are you people doing to her?"

With a shrug, Dawson continued. "Just talking. But she's having the time of her life as she reads through some chronicles."

"Mine?"

Dawson inclined his head, with a grin. "Well it _was_ the first one she asked for. She's getting very excited about what she's learning."

"Oh great… just great," complained Duncan as he leaned against the counter. "Just what we need… a reporter reporting on us."

"Not to the public. She understands that. But yeah… she might want to hang around ask you some questions."

Duncan rubbed his brow and closed his eyes. _Perfect!_

"Anyway, just wanted you to know." He turned and then turned back. "By the way, she said to tell you that she turned over some evidence and suspicions on Suzanne Honninger to the police. She thinks Miss Honninger will shortly find herself a resident of the state penitentiary."

"What about Gallen? Where is he?"

Dawson shook his head. "I can't tell you that. You know that MacLeod. I'm not your personal link to the whereabouts of other immortals…"

"… except when it suits you," Duncan snorted.

Dawson froze and then nodded. "Yeah… sorry about that. Listen… Gallen's moved on. He's no longer in town. You'll just have to wait and see if you run across him again."

"Then he gets away with two murders."

Dawson nodded. "But Suzanne Honniger will pay… she's the real villain."

"If she's convicted."

Dawson shrugged. "That's for the courts to decide… not the Watchers."

"And where's the justice for Tommy Bannen and Michael Honniger?"

"You know MacLeod… it's not all about justice. Sometimes you have to settle for what you can get."

Duncan nodded as he showed Dawson out and closed the door. In the studio he could hear the sounds of Tessa's welding. She'd been relieved and happy when he'd returned last night. They'd made love as if it were both the first time… and the last. As always… he'd been struck by the sheer joy of her in his arms… as if it were only an illusion. Now listening to the sounds of her working and contemplating his failure to kill Anthony Gallen… he felt a sense of _déjà vu_… and for a moment, thought he heard someone chuckle. Closing his eyes, he saw once more a small ball bouncing on a surface of white.


	35. Other Choices, Other Lives, part 1

**35  
****_Other Choices, Other Lives, part 1_ **

Darius' eyes snapped open.

The unremitting black of the jungle night oppressed him on all sides. He sat up and lowered his bare feet onto the rough wooden floor of his bungalow and moved aside the omnipresent mosquito netting. Drawing in deep breath after deep breath of the hot, humid jungle air… he finally centered himself once more. He was restless… and there was only one way to work this off.

He pulled his sword from where it lay hidden under his mattress and grasped the hilt firmly as he stepped out of his room and padded silently through the darkness down the steps of the bungalow and across the compound to the classroom building.

In the distance he heard the growl of a hungry predator. The sound made him even more eager for this workout. For centuries, when he'd had restless nights, he'd risen and thrown himself into a heavy physical workout that lasted until he was so weary… he could finally sleep. He'd tried meditation, prayer, and other forms of relaxation, but the only one that had ever really worked… was the one he'd always used… physical exertion. Even when he'd lived in monasteries with other monks, he'd found ways to handle the pent up restlessness of the predator within him.

Reaching the bungalow that housed the classrooms, he slipped into the large empty room that Rachel had set aside for "exercises" and "games" and positioned himself in the center. He needed no light… save the ambient light of the stars… closed his eyes stretched and began. This sword was lighter in weight than most of the ones he'd carried as a warrior and general. This sword would never have stood up to the carnage of battle. But for here and for now… it was enough.

In the weeks since he'd arrived, his muscles had begun to recall the ancient routines and move in battle. He lunged, skipped, turned, leaped and shifted as his invisible opponents attacked again and again… their faces were blanks… they were shadows only… remnants of the battles he'd fought in this and other lives. And that, he knew was at the core of his restlessness.

He shouldn't have remembered them. He didn't at first. But as he lived each life, he began to be aware of those moments of _déjà vu_… as the arbiter had warned him. Each time through he had another piece of the puzzle and saw more clearly the roads diverging before him.

The nexus of all of his lives seemed to revolve around the killing of the Ancient immortal in Paris… called Emrys by some for a time. Perhaps that was the reason that as time passed… he began to realize that life repeated itself. There were times he left Paris and traveled the world. There were times he'd turned aside from Paris and continued fighting. This time… he'd resolved to remain and use whatever knowledge he'd gleaned from the other and from his other choices, to make life better for others. It wasn't all about him… and he'd learned enough.

Those other lives had faded from his conscious memory as his years of service in Paris had drawn on. Then Duncan had told him to go. With a sudden connection he'd seen it and understood. And once more… a path he'd never followed lay before him.

By this time, sweat dripped from his brow and from under his arms. He moved in fluid motion… letting his body take him to where it needed to go… while his mind found rest and clarity. He felt Rachel arriving long before she did so. He wasn't surprised. She'd likely wakened and not sensing him in his room had come to check on him. Moments later the overhead lights turned on and he could here a slight buzz about one flicking bulb.

"If I'd wanted lights," he said without halting his routine, "I'd have turned them on."

"Well I like lights," she said with a smirk.

Darius stopped and saw the gothic broadsword in her hands. "Besides… isn't it about time you had a partner… even one as poor as me?"

He laughed and motioned her in. She was right… he'd put off asking her to join him for fear that their workouts would waken others. But perhaps it was time.

"Blades or staffs?" Rachel asked. She wore a gray t-shirt and shorts, likely the clothes she slept in. She pulled back her blonde hair to tie it up out of the way, and then joined him in the middle of the room. She crouched slightly, holding her blade easily while she shifted back and forth… watching his own moves.

He stretched his neck and paced back and forth a few steps, his broadsword held easily in his hands. When he caught the pattern of her motions, he lunged forward; bringing the blade to within an inch of one of her arms, paused and then withdrew.

Rachel instinctively rubbed her arm. "Good thing this isn't for real."

He laughed and paced some more, noticing that she varied her routine this time… but there was still a pattern to it… only it every ten moves instead of every four. He stepped in for an uppercut, only for to alter her move as he did so and swing suddenly in a slice that came up lightly on one of his thighs. He stepped back. "You're better than you think you are."

"I manage. I had good teachers thanks to your patronage."

Darius nodded as he recalled the first time he'd ever seen her.

Paris, 1749 

"Darius! Come quickly _mon pere_," called out Paul his sexton at the small church of _St. Julien les Pauvre._

Darius had wiped the dirt from the garden from his hands and stood, a tall lanky man in the dark black cassock of a French priest. "What is it _mon ami_?"

"Someone has left a _bebe_ in the church!" The small heavy-set man puffed in his exertion and excitement… his face florid.

Startled and curious, Darius had followed him into the church where he'd found her, wrapped in a bit a coarse blanket on the chancel steps. She was crying… likely cold and hungry.

Darius had sensed the pre-immortal in her at once and lifted her into his arms. "Some mother must have left her here for the church to raise," he murmured. Poor women had done it for centuries… although most had left the infants at the cathedral. He'd cradled her there a moment… juggling her up and down until she ceased her wailing to regard him with wide blue eyes. He'd grinned. "Let's take you over to the good sisters. I think they might have some milk for you. Would you like that little one?"

He'd given her into the care of the Sisters of Charity who ran the orphanage and school nearby. Yet even when he'd done so, he'd discovered himself stopping by there frequently to watch the small baby in her crib… and to hold her. Long ago he'd found another pre-immortal child. His fate had not been a good one. Darius still shuddered at what he and his soldiers had done to it.

"She seems to like you," Mother Anne said gently, clucking at the girl. "She cries so except when you are here."

Darius had rocked her to sleep in his arms, and returned to his church. Every instinct told him to stay far away from this child… yet he was finding it difficult.

He was preparing for evening mass when there was light knock on the door of his cell. Opening it, he saw one of his former parishioners… Naomi de Chevalier. Startled, he suggested they walk about the grounds in the late afternoon sun of a Paris spring. He'd known her as a child… watched her grow up… and had seen her married to Mark de Chevalier some twenty years ago. She'd left Paris to live on her husband's estate and he hadn't seen or heard from her since.

As always, seeing a mortal after many years had passed, seeing that they'd aged in their way, was always surprising to him. Yet even as he and this proper matron wandered about the church grounds, he heard the merry laughter of her childhood in her comments.

"But why have you come to see me?" he'd finally asked, his curiosity about her visit greatly bothering him.

Naomi had looked around and then settled on one of the stone benches, speaking quietly as though she feared to be overheard. "It has been a good life, _pere_, and I have come to care for my husband over the years."

He'd nodded, recalling that it had been an arranged marriage. "But?"

"Of the eight children I bore him, only one reached maturity. I am now likely beyond child-bearing years."

Darius had sighed in sympathy. "I did not know. To bury one's children is a heavy burden."

"And the one who grew up, our son Paul, was killed six months ago."

"You have my deepest sympathies."

"_Merci_," she replied staring off into the distance, tears forming in her eyes. He took her hand and held it.

Turning to him, Naomi put on a brave face. "Mark is distraught and angry. They had quarreled shortly before Paul's death. It was about a young woman that Paul had been seeing."

"Oh?"

"She was of a poor family… of questionable moral character. Mark told him she was quite unsuitable for a wife."

"Sharp words spoken in the heat of passion often become daggers when they cannot be retracted," Darius mused.

Naomi nodded. "Exactly. Mark feels guilty… and now he has no heir. He has a cousin who has a young son… but he fears the de Chevalier name dies with him."

Darius waited.

"The young woman vanished from her home after Paul's death. I followed her to Paris against Mark's wishes. She was pregnant and alone."

Darius nodded… finally seeing where this was going. "And you couldn't find her."

"Quite the contrary… I found her… or rather what became of her. She died in childbirth… as did the _bebe_."

Darius closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer for the souls of the departed… then he turned again to her. "Why come see me other than to unburden your soul?"

Naomi looked around and then cleaned closely to him to whisper. "When I was a very little girl… my grandmamma told me a fantastic tale. She said she'd known you when she was a little girl."

The breath caught in his throat.

"I did not believe her, of course," Naomi laughed. "She was an old woman and half mad at the time."

"And now?"

"And now I see you and you are exactly as you were when I was a girl."

Darius shrugged. "Perhaps you are mistaken."

Naomi had lifted one hand to his cheek. "_Non pere_, I am not mistaken."

"For the sake of argument, let us say you are right. Why are you here?"

Dropping her hand and turning to gaze about them she finally put it bluntly. "I'm here for a child. If there are those upon whom youth sits forever, long-lived, I beg you for one."

Darius laughed. "_Madame_ de Chevalier, I'm flattered… but I…"

Blushing, Naomi shook her head. "That did not come out right." She covered her face a moment. "What I meant to say was that perhaps you knew of a child I could take home with me. One that I could present to Mark as Paul's child."

Stifling his laughter, he'd nodded. "There are several currently being cared for by the Sisters of Charity."

"Would you arrange for me to see them… take one as my own?"

"That can be arranged," he replied soberly.

And so it was done. Naomi had been most interested in the male children… but had chosen the pre-immortal girl child even without knowing what she truly was. "The age is right," Naomi had muttered. But the look on her face as she'd cradled the girl in her arms was filled with love. Darius drew up the papers, assuring the Sisters that the child's family had come forward to claim the child.

He'd not seen Naomi again after that day, but had occasionally received letters from her over the years that "Rachelle" as she'd named her was healthy, happy, and growing into a fine young lady.

----------

Seeing an opening, Darius stepped forward to trip Rachel so that she went sprawling suddenly to the floor. Kneeling, he laid his sword against her neck with a grin.

She grinned back. Then he felt the point of a knife pressed against his chest… ready to be plunged into his heart. Laughing he pulled back, rose and paced again.

"You're better than you think you are," he said again.

She rolled and scrambled to her feet. "I don't like to lose," she laughed. "Besides, in this country… it's best to be prepared." The knife had vanished; again she held her sword. "I've never seen you with a sword before… you pace like one of the big cats… waiting to unleash an attack."

Darius laughed. "I think it was the lion's roar that awakened me earlier… called to me."

"I heard tales of course about your once being a barbarian and a general, but I never could see it before. I think I do now." She resumed her crouch… her eyes watching his every move.

Darius shrugged. "Who we were is always a part of us… even buried far beneath the surface."

Rachel laughed. "Let's hope not. I'd hate to always be that lost and frightened young woman who showed up on your doorstep in 1775."

"You were never lost," he said gently and then attacked once more.

Paris, 1775 

Morning services were just letting out. Darius greeted the regular parishioners at the door, shook a few hands, laughed at the occasional joke, and was feeling quite at ease when he'd sensed an immortal presence nearby.

His eyes had darted about the grounds until he'd seen a cloaked figure near the gate. Upon finishing with the parishioners, he'd stared at the figure… unable to see much… and then had retreated into the church itself.

Some moments later she entered, for he could ascertain that from her size. She loosened the hood about her face, shaking free blonde curls. It was heart-shaped, and delicately formed. Her slim hands were gloved against the weather. "_Pere_ Darius?" she asked. Her eyes blinked as she shook her head and rubbed her brow.

"So you are new to this?" he replied gently. "You need not fear me, child."

She glanced up at him quizzically as if his words made no sense. Pulling a letter from her bad, she held it out to him. He'd recognized the handwriting.

Meeting her gaze he said, "Rachel."

Rachel had nodded. "I was told to come to you if something happened that made no sense to me… and something has happened."

He'd taken the letter, glanced through it. "When did your grandmother die?" he finally asked.

"A few years ago."

He'd nodded. "And what happened to you?"

She'd looked around as if to be certain no one else was around. "My husband was drinking and became violent. He was furious that I still bore him no children. In his rage… he pushed me down a flight of steps." She'd shrugged. "I died."

"Yes," he agreed sadly. Then he'd smiled. "But then you woke up."

Rachel had nodded. "I took the opportunity to flee the household. He was in a drunken stupor and the servants were not around."

"I regret what happened… my part in it, in placing you there."

She'd shaken her head. "We are what we are. My grandmother said she thought I was like you… to come find you if I had questions. I have questions, _pere_. What are we?"

He'd taken her to his cell, made tea, and begun the long explanations of immortals… and the game. She'd stayed with the Sisters for several days while he'd located a tutor for her… his old friend Grace Chandel would do for starts… though she was not an active participant in the game. Still… she knew how to defend herself and could help Rachel acclimate to her new existence.

Darius had been pleased and a bit taken back by Rachel's calm acceptance of her circumstances… and her desire to face her new future confidently. That aspect of her personality had never wavered.

----------

"You always knew what you wanted," he teased her, lunging suddenly only for her to parry the stroke. The blades clanged loudly in the night with the sudden force of the landed blow. Each pulled back… continuing the wary circling.

Rachel laughed. "Perhaps I did… at any rate… Welcome back to the game."

Darius grinned in agreement. "It's a new life… and there are new choices to be made."

She attacked once more. This time he caught her sword with his, whipping it around to disarm her. Then he kicked her foot from beneath her and followed her to the floor.

For a moment they stared at one another… breathing heavily. Then he lowered himself onto her, kissing her firmly. She kissed back hungrily and pulled him even closer. It was indeed a new life… with new choices to be made.

-----


	36. Other Choices, Other Lives, part 2

**36  
**_**Other Choices, Other Lives, part 2 **_

Methos was playing with fire… and he knew it. Glancing at the sleeping Jillian O'Hara lying next to him, he let out a deep breath and rose. This had been a mistake. She was intriguing… yes… and willing. But he didn't love her. Rising, he quietly and stealthily pulled on his clothes and was at the front door of her flat when he heard her behind him.

He turned. "I didn't want to wake you."

"So you decided to just leave? That's rude Adam!"

Methos shrugged. "I'm sorry. I just thought it best to go. You were wonderful." He kissed her cheek.

"Hmmph!" she snorted folding her arms across her.

"You've your assignments. You're usually on the go. I lead a very reclusive and sedentary life. I prefer it that way."

"So this was nothing?" she accused him.

He blushed. "No… I wouldn't call it nothing. It was delightful. I just really need to go. I have work to do. I'll call you."

Maybe I won't answer," she retorted.

He smiled. "Then call me. Maybe I _will_ answer." Kissing her cheek again, he left, slipping out the door and down the stairs to exit onto the dark and deserted Paris street.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and slouched along the street, watching for taxis, scarce at three a.m. in this part of Paris. Turning his collar up against the chill wind, the world's oldest living immortal considered his choice to leave an admittedly warm bed and a willing companion. But he didn't want entanglements… at least not the romantic kind. He worked with Jillian and feared that becoming too involved with her would mean that she would learn his secret… and then his true identity. It was better to play it safe.

His footsteps echoed in the darkness… a solitary sound for a solitary man. It had not always been thus. There had been a time when he'd have actively pursued a relationship with a woman. And one of them _had_ been a Watcher… his Watcher… though she'd never known his name… or all the regrets of his long life.

Florence 1457 

Methos took a deep breath as the quickening roared about him, finally piercing his very being like a lance, charged with power. From his chest it raced along his arms, torso, legs, and seemed to explode about his head. The visions of Vincenzo Ponti's life roared through his mind… the memories becoming his memories… the life his life. It found its place in the large volume of his existence… and finally settled quietly. Memories that he could visit again some time. A life he could draw knowledge from. And Methos wanted knowledge. It was the primary reason for the game in his thoughts. A game he wanted desperately to survive. He hated being caught unawares by the young ones. Cursing he replaced his sword in its sheath.

He saw her then, trying to remain in the shadows, cloaked by darkness. Purposely he strode to her… pulling her into the moonlight. He gripped both of her hands.

She was pretty, but then he found many women pretty… and dressed as one of the new middle-class… perhaps a servant or in trades. "Who are you and what did you see?" he demanded.

"Please _signore_, you are hurting me," she'd pleaded.

He'd relaxed his grip slightly. "_Scusi_!" he mumbled.

She'd attempted to leave. He'd restrained her and then noticed the small medallion about her neck. Holding it up with the fingers of one hand, he'd spat. "_Guardiano_!"

She gasped. "How do you know of us?"

"I know many things," he'd replied leaning his face close to hers and searching it for lies and duplicity. He saw none… only wonder.

"Tell me," she'd replied breathlessly. Her dark eyes had sparkled in the moonlight… her cupid's bow of a mouth had glistened invitingly. A lock of red hair had fallen across her brow.

"To know me is to court _Il Morte_," he warned her.

"Then I will die willingly," she'd said breathlessly.

He'd kissed her then, both of their hands running across the other's body, seeking the feel of skin beneath the voluminous garments of the day. He'd pulled back. "Are you certain?"

"Long have I watched immortals… and never knew one. Ponti was an _asino_! I'm glad you killed him."

He'd cupped a hand about her jaw. "Why shouldn't I kill _you_?"

She'd gazed at him defiantly, then said with a win, "Then to whom would you tell your story?"

Her bravery and wit had enchanted him. They were rare gifts in the women of that day. He'd laughed and pulled her closer to him. "Come with me then… and I will answer all your questions."

He hadn't though. He'd given Gabriella a much shorter and far more heroic version of his life… a pretence born of his need to banish Methos and the man he'd once been to the furthest reaches of knowledge. She'd reported to her superiors that Ponti had died at the hands of an unknown immortal… and had remained with him… helped him stay hidden from both Watchers and other immortals alike. She'd become his wife and lover until the day of her death. She'd written his tales into a diary that he still had in his collection. She'd never betrayed what he was… but then… he'd never given her reason.

----------

"Life was simpler then," the immortal muttered. There'd been fewer immortals; no photography, no sound recordings, and the Watchers had been only a minor irritant in his life. Now, all that had changed. If the Watchers ever discovered that he was immortal, worse who he truly was somehow, he'd not have a moment's peace after that. He'd be hounded and hunted for the rest of his life by both Watchers and immortals.

It was better to be a myth. Not that he hadn't enjoyed the evening's activities… he had. But he didn't want to pursue a relationship… not now… and not with a fellow Watcher. He was in Watcher's for two reasons. One was that he wanted to keep tabs on his former brothers, enemies, and acquaintances; the other was to hide in plain sight. Watchers would never think to look for an immortal within their own ranks.

Finally reaching the flat he currently called home, he stepped in and turned on the lights. Checking his computer, he noted the search program that he'd set into motion before leaving earlier had turned up several possibilities. Eagerly, and now fully awake, he settled before the screen to study and explore them.

_Paris, 551 C.E._

Pulling his horse to a standstill, Methos stared around at the peasants. He could sense someone here. He smiled when he saw the tall, lanky form of Darius.

Methos patted his horse as the old general approached. "Steady there boy. Hello old friend. Still here?"

"Still here… else I must be a figment of your imagination."

Methos chuckled and dismounted. The two men walked. "I wondered that you were here."

"Where else should I be," Darius had replied with a chuckle.

Methos had given him an odd look. "Out conquering the world?"

"I gave that up!" chuckled the other immortal.

"Ah," he'd replied without commitment. For a moment, he'd seemed to recall once killing the Ancient Immortal himself… something to do with a sacrifice. He shook his head, the odd feeling vanishing.

"I thought I'd continue his work…" Darius was saying. "There is another way… another path to the end."

Methos had looked at him curiously, wondering what he was thinking. "The end of the game?"

Darius shrugged. "The end of the road perhaps." He smiled benignly at the elder man. "I learned who you are."

Methos stumbled slightly in surprise. "What?"

"Your name… and you once lectured me on _my_ barbarism!" he laughed.

Methos said nothing… merely looked where they were going. He'd learned over the centuries to say as little as possible. There was less chance of betraying something.

"Methos? Have you nothing to say?"

Methos closed his eyes and shook his head. "Who told you?" he finally asked wearily.

Darius had shrugged. "The Ancient One knew. Odd thing is… in him were some of your memories."

"How do you know they were mine?"

Darius had slapped him companionably on the back. "I knew. Some of them were memories you had of me."

They'd shared a simple meal and Methos had remained the night before moving on… ever the restless and solitary loner.

----------

By dawn, he'd explored and rejected each of the possibilities. "You're out there old friend," he said to the computer screen. "Somewhere… somehow. We're connected you and I… we once both killed and were killed by the same man and everything was different because of the choices the three of us made in the aftermaths of those challenges." Had the game reset again? Who'd won this time? Odd that he'd had no sense of it this time… as if whoever had done so was a stranger. But if so… where was Darius?

Finally he shut down the computer and crawled into his bed for sleep.

The phone rang moments later. At first he let it ring. But it would stop before the machine picked up the message… and then begin again… and again… and again.

"All right!" he snapped reaching for it. Someone knew he was here and wanted to talk. "Pierson," he spit forcefully. "And this had better be good! I'm trying to sleep."

"It's eight o'clock in the morning Severnus. You should be up and about. Late night?"

"Marcus," Methos replied and sat leaning against the headboard while running a hand through his dark hair. "What do want?"

"Lunch… my treat."

"I've told you before… I don't like congregating."

"_St. Julien's_… one o'clock," the historian said. "We need to talk about our mutual friend."

Methos felt as someone had punched him in the stomach. "You've heard something?"

"Meet me and we'll discuss it," the Roman replied. "One o'clock Severnus." There was an audible _click_ as the connection was broken.

Methos slammed the receiver into its cradle and reached for the alarm… setting it for noon. He threw himself down in the bed once more. Four hours was better than none.

-----

Arriving at the church grounds, Methos caught site of Marcus Constantine sitting on one of the benches, reading a newspaper and occasionally sipping from a Styrofoam cup. He sauntered to the bench and sat on the far end, opening a sack and tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons.

"What do you want?" he asked quietly, without responding to the other man.

"A friend of mine in the shipping business sent me some pictures of the artifacts being loaded in Cairo. The ship had some other stops to make in Africa before sailing north again."

"If this is about my helping you with Nefertiri… I haven't decided."

"No?" Marcus said and folded the newspaper. "Check under the seat after I'm gone." He rose, tossed the cup in the trash receptacle and sauntered off the grounds; his newspaper tucked neatly under one arm. Methos gave it several moments and then reached under the seat. He felt an envelope taped to the underneath, Ripping it free he casually lifted it and stuffed it into his pocket. He'd look at it later. He finished distributing the bread crumbs… rose, balled the bag, and tossed it into the receptacle… as if making a free throw. He liked American basketball… it was a thinking man's game… a game of tactics and pace… a game for the one who could manage to stay in it for the long haul… the long-distance runner. "Yes!" he said pumping his fist and pulling it toward him when the bag went in.

Once home again he pulled the envelope out. In it were three photographs of the crates from Cairo being loaded onto a ship. He flipped through them with bored detachment… and then scanned them more closely… or rather the faces of the men working to load those crates. One face in all three photos caught his eye and he smiled.

"I knew you were out there," he said triumphantly, "and now Marcus knows it as well." Grabbing a lighter he set fire to the photos. Like most immortals, he had a healthy fear of photos falling into the wrong hands. He had all he needed. He'd meet the ship when it docked in Marseilles as Marcus wished. He'd take custody of the sarcophagus and its precious cargo… and he'd ask questions of the sailors. He'd buy them drinks… speak of research for a book he was writing… and discover more about the bearded man in the photo. He had no doubt that his friend had moved on… but at least now he had a clue as to how he'd left Europe… and the general direction he'd gone.

"Are you back in the game? Or was you just avoiding Horton's people?" he mused as he opened a bottle of beer, downing half of it in a single gulp. "And if you changed your mind and left… how did you know? Who warned you?" There was a new player in the game… one that had the ability to win. Methos was determined to find him… and discover if he were a help or a hindrance… a friend… or a foe.

Meanwhile… he'd help Marcus with Nefertiri. It was the least he could do. Besides… Marcus was right. Methos feared that re-awakening an immortal from such a long sleep would not be healthy for the Roman… or for his lovely wife. "And what about me?" He wondered how she'd react to seeing him again? They had not parted on the best of terms either… long before Marcus Constantine was ever born.

For some reason… Methos feared he might be playing with fire… again.

-----


	37. Other Choices, Other Lives, part 3

**37  
**_**Other Choices, Other Lives, part 3**_

If he had thought the quickening might be less satisfactory than normal, Xavier St. Cloud was pleasantly surprised that it was just as good as it ever was. He'd had a few reservations about letting Horton's handpicked squad of men gun down his opponent. But he'd discovered that cheating did not leave a bad taste in his mouth. Besides… an immortal with one hand had to level the playing field somehow.

The quickening plowed into his heart as effectively as it ever did while excess power exploded nearby streetlights, neon signs, electronics in a store window display… and car alarms. It crackled like living fire about his prosthetic hook… but otherwise seemed much the same.

When he recovered… he fired some of the neurons, which activated the hook and saw with glee that for a few moments… sparks flew when the parts of it moved.

He was nearly delirious with glee and glanced up at James Horton in the shadows. "This might work out very well for both of us," he said smoothly, awkwardly replacing his sword within his coat.

"I told you that my plan was flawless," Horton said with sarcasm. "All you have to do is call them out, let the boys do their thing, and then reap the reward."

"And how long will it be before I outlive my usefulness?" St. Cloud replied with humor.

Horton's eyes widened before his expression was once more that self-satisfied smirk. "In the end there can be only one. Why not you?"

"With you as my…" he held up the hook which replaced his left hand, "… _left_ hand man as it were?"

Horton's smile widened. "Of course. We make an excellent team. I'm the brains… and you're the brawn."

"And here I thought you'd approached me for my mind," chuckled St. Cloud.

"Without me… you'd still be hiding from other immortals except the very young. This way… my way… you can manage MacLeod."

"Now?"

"Not quite yet. A little more practice is called for I believe."

"Practice," murmured St. Cloud, his eyes taking on an unfocused look.

Paris, 1195 

"You must practice," Henri St. Cloud was saying again to the young immortal he'd taken in as a student. He'd renamed the Moor Xavier, and had brought him back to France following the end of the Third Crusade. "You cannot go back to your own village and people until at least a lifetime later," he'd told him. "In France, I can teach you everything you need to know."

The young man now called Xavier had agreed. He had much to learn if he were going to be able to compete in a kill or be kill game. If the centuries-old Henri St. Cloud were any indication of the level of competition in this game… then Xavier was clearly out-matched. Nevertheless, he missed the wide desert vistas of his youth, and the clean heat of the days. This damp cold of the north did not agree with him. He sneezed… again.

"Ha… ha!" laughed St. Cloud, pounding Xavier on the shoulder. "All you need is a little acclimation. I will make a gentleman of you yet!"

Xavier had arched an eyebrow at that. He thought St. Cloud and the entire life-style of these barbarians was beneath him. He had grown up in a more civilized though harsh world. These Europeans were only a few generations removed from wearing animal skins and painting their faces. Indeed, some still did so.

He shuddered at the thought of animal skins draped on his shoulders, as was still the fashion here, or laid on the cold, stone floors of the keeps. He made certain not to step on them, preferring to avoid them when at all possible.

He had been intrigued by leather, however, especially on the foot as it gave greater protection in this land of rocks instead of sand. Well… perhaps these barbarians had a few good ideas. He smiled and bowed, moving his hand to reverence his teacher. "I shall endeavor to learn all I need… and to practice daily… my master."

"And stop bowing to me! I'm not a king… by God! Nor would I want to be!" He belched some of the ale he was drinking and slapped Xavier's arm. "You're far too effeminate sometimes. You best watch that."

Xavier glared a moment at St. Cloud's uncouth behavior, and then smiled. "Yes… I'd hate for anyone to think I sleep with boys."

"Right you are!" roared St. Cloud. "Which reminds me… I have some servants around here who shall serve us quite nicely."

Their names were unimportant, Xavier discovered. They were of the lower class, daughters of serfs, bound to St. Cloud's land… and accustomed to their lordship's demands. Xavier discovered that they had little finesse in the matters of love… but would bend over without complaint if St. Cloud or Xavier asked them to do so. St. Cloud did so often… Xavier less so… as he'd been taught to regard even prostitutes with respect. And these were not prostitutes… simply women without a choice in the matter.

"… and I need not worry about bastards coming out of the woodwork," laughed St. Cloud as he finished up with one and slapped her rear before turning to continue down the corridor with Xavier. The Moor and averted his eyes as he always did. He truly disliked much about his mentor… his casual attitude toward sex with his employees being one of those reasons. But Xavier still had much to learn… his skill with his scimitar clearly no match for the evident skill of Henri St. Cloud… Crusader Knight of the Realm.

_But the day will come_, thought Xavier as he stepped along sprightly behind his mentor. _The day will come when I will be better than you. And on that day my barbarian master… all you have… including your name… will be mine_.

----------

And the day had come. Xavier had learned to wait for his opponents and to pick his battles carefully. No one he couldn't beat was challenged. He and MacLeod had just come up against one another a bit too soon… or maybe he'd left him too long. The man was much better than he'd given him credit for… especially for one so young.

"Are you going to stand there all day and stare off into space?" Horton was saying. "We need to get going."

Xavier smiled benignly… almost indulgently at the mortal. "I am at your service. Mr. Horton." But even he did not trust the man. He'd turned on his own kind for a reason… he hated immortals. Xavier had no illusions about what Horton would try to do once he no longer needed the Moor. _When MacLeod is dead_, Xavier thought as climbed neatly into Horton's sedan, _You and I will part company… permanently._

"I want to set some things up in Paris," Horton was saying. Xavier nodded absently.

"Paris in the dead of winter… how perfectly charming," he said with droll wit.

"I want to be certain that when we draw MacLeod out… we have a fallback position in case of problems."

"You worry too much," Xavier replied smoothly. "With your men and their Uzi's to slow him down… he shouldn't put up too much of a fight."

"This isn't a game, St. Cloud!" Horton insisted testily.

St. Cloud laughed merrily. "That's where you are wrong, Mr. Horton. It is indeed a game. Without a sense of humor and style… it becomes only murder. I don't murder."

Horton snorted. He'd crossed his legs and was staring at the Rio de Janeiro skyline, the pedestrians and the tourists wandering the brightly lit street. As far as he was concerned… murder was all it was. Immortals had no conscience about it… they killed… and they didn't care who got in the way.

_July 4, 1988_

James Horton had to agree; his new assignment was far easier on his life and marriage than his previous one. Whereas the Kurgan had frequented biker bars and usually been on the prowl in the underbellies of the world's large cities in his quest to kill all immortals, Blake Wilmington was a breath of fresh air.

True, he was no saint, but then few of them were. He'd been killed during the robbery of a convenience store. The clerk, tired of being robbed again and again, had pulled a forty-five from under the counter and blasted Wilmington to kingdom come. That should have been the end of the story… but it wasn't. Immortals just didn't stay dead.

Wilmington had awakened in the morgue, beaten and robbed the attendant, and fled into the night. He'd next turned up later that year of 1985 as a member of a crew of thieves attempting to rob the **_First National Bank_** of Seacouver, WA. He'd died along with several of the others in a police shootout. When a plant inside the police department noticed Wilmington's ID… he contacted the Watchers and they had a stakeout on the morgue.

Once again, Wilmington rose from the dead; beat and robbed the attendant, this time inflicting broken bones and a ruptured spleen on his victim. And this time… he was followed.

Horton was assigned to him about three weeks later. The young man was drifting through petty crimes with an increasingly devil-may-care attitude of "Ya can't stop me coppers!" In fact, he'd uttered that phrase during the shootout after the bank robbery.

Benjamin Corlett had finally found him and attempted to teach him what he was and what he needed to do. Wilmington took his teacher's head about three months later. Never let it be said that he didn't get the message. In fact… Horton had overheard him after he recovered from Corlett's quickening as saying something to the effect that "it was better than drugs… better than sex… and better than rock and roll." Horton had somehow doubted that last one.

Since early 1986 and now, Wilmington had become quite the daring assassin for the local mob. He didn't mind getting killed in the process… and then getting up again. It was likely only a matter of time before another immortal… a really bad one… got word of this Johnny-come-lately. But Blake… while certainly a problem child, was not truly evil… at least… not yet.

As far as James Horton was concerned… Blake Wilmington was a walk in the park compared to his earlier assignments… the mercenary Kage, and the Kurgan. The Kurgan was dead, thankfully at the hands of Connor MacLeod in 1985… but Kage had vanished shortly after witnessing the killing fields of Cambodia in 1975. He'd come upon a field of slaughtered children… dead by his refusal to airlift them out of danger rather than his drugs… and that field of torn and bloodied bodies had made more of an impression on the mercenary than hundreds of years of corpses had. When and where he'd turn up next… no one knew. Horton had lost him in the jungles… his own terror and confusion about what he witnessed, rendering him incapable of Watching for a while.

But the Kurgan's cold calculations, and his ability to spot a tail, and the deaths of several Watchers inadvertently, had led to Horton's drawing the assignment. It had nearly ended his marriage… and lost him his child.

But all that was past now. Today was the Fourth of July and Blake Wilmington was taking in an amusement park. So James Horton had decided to relax a bit, bring his daughter Lynn for a father-daughter outing prior to her senior year of high school, and enjoy the sunshine and the Independence Day Celebrations at the park. His wife had begged off… something about a headache. Horton hadn't cared. She was not important to his life anymore… but Lynn was; and now that she was nearly grown, her mother wouldn't be able to stand in the way of their being together. Lynn loved him… and that was all that mattered.

Horton kept one eye on Wilmington, and the other on Lynn as they wandered about the park. Even Wilmington seemed to be getting into the spirit of the day. Oh… he'd likely lifted a wallet or two… but essentially… he was behaving himself… just one more guy out for a good time on the holiday.

It all went horribly wrong in less time than it should have.

Wilmington ran across Norman Kellogg… a rather distasteful immortal who had been a pedophile in his first life and continued to kidnap and abuse children in his immortal life as a hobby. Likely finding his next prepubescent boy or girl was _his_ reason for being at the park. When they ran into some of Lynn's school friends, Horton managed to lose his daughter for a bit while he watched the duel. Surprisingly, it went to Wilmington. He cheated of course. He pulled out his magnum and blew a hole in Kellogg's chest before going to work on him with Kellogg's own sword. The quickening knocked out about half the rides. Lynn later told him that she'd been caught at the top of the Ferris wheel with her friends when the "power outage" had occurred… but at the time… Horton had been frantic.

Blake had risen after the quickening and brushed himself off… then he'd begun laughing maniacally. He'd reloaded his magnum with a full clip and sauntered through the park… killing mortals at random. He didn't seem to have any fear of what might happen to him. He went through five clips of ammo before an off-duty police officer managed to cut him down. Wilmington was laughing the whole time.

Horton, frantic that Lynn had been among the dead, was barely capable of calling for backup and help. He'd pleaded with the Tribunal in the days that followed that Wilmington had to be stopped. They'd calmly told him that Watchers… Watch… they don't interfere. Then they'd recommended counseling for him.

Horton had played along… but the combined trauma of what he'd witnessed over the past thirteen years, had crystallized his thinking. He began to covertly seek out other Watchers also sickened by what they observed… and together… they were ridding the world of these inhuman freaks.

----------

James Horton had personally dispatched half a dozen of the demons, as he tended to think of them, since 1989. It wasn't as easy as he'd thought. First he had to recruit others… then they had to pool their limited information on immortals… not their own… and begin to rid the world of the worst of them. Blake Wilmington had awakened in a morgue one night in 1991… to the feel of several men holding him down… and the face of James Horton as he'd used a bone saw to end Wilmington's reign of terror. By that time… Horton had no longer been his Watcher, but was head of the Northwestern American Bureau of Watchers. It had felt extremely rewarding to rid the world of that weasel.

St. Cloud would follow Wilmington in good time. Once MacLeod was dead, Horton would have no further use for the crippled immortal. He smiled at St. Cloud who chuckled beside him in the back seat of the sedan. Theirs was an unholy alliance based on need… and mutual hate of one man… Duncan MacLeod.

"You'll like the immortal I've selected for you in Paris," Horton said smoothly.

"Oh? And who is the sacrificial lamb to be?"

"Anton LeGris… he's a florist."

"Well… we all have to be something."

"He hasn't had a challenge in nearly ten years. He's ripe for the slaughter," chuckled Horton. He pulled out a file and passed a glossy 8 x 10 black and white headshot over to St. Cloud.

"Does he even carry a sword?"

"Not usually. But I'm certain if you extend the challenge… he'll be glad to meet you. He's very honorable."

"And the devil take honorable men," purred St. Cloud. He used his hook to rip the photograph in half… raggedly separating LeGris' head from his shoulders. "This could be fun."

"Just don't get cocky," Horton reminded him. "We stick to the plan. Trust me. By the time we're finished… MacLeod will be shaking in his boots waiting for the axe to fall."

St. Cloud regarded him with a cocked eyebrow. "I don't think MacLeod is the sort to quake."

Horton chuckled. "But then… you don't know everything I have planned for the good Highlander and his lovely bride."

"Oh? Care to share?"

"All in good time, St. Cloud; all in good time."

The two men rode in companionable silence until they reached the private airfield, and boarded Horton's **_Lear_** Jet for the flight from Brazil to France.

-----


	38. Other Choices, Other Lives, part 4

**38  
_Other Choices, Other Lives, part 4 _**

At a light knock on his front door, Joe Dawson opened it to see a young woman giving him a bright smile.

"Amy!" he said jovially and waved her in.

"Hi 'Uncle' Joe," she said as she entered and kissed his brow.

"Not that I'm not always happy to see you, but to what do I owe this visit. Why aren't you in school."

"Oh… winter holiday at college. I told mom and dad that I needed to come talk with you."

"Having second thoughts about your choice of career?" Joe asked worriedly. Amy was a history major at St. Mary's College in Durham, England.

Amy Brennan-Thomas settled easily in the armchair angled next to the sofa. "Oh no… I just heard the scuttlebutt about your brother-in-law… and thought you might need a sympathetic ear."

"James' duplicity and breaking of vows was very serious," Joe agreed. "His daughter Lynn is confused and angry. James evidently killed her fiancé when Robert questioned what James was doing."

"Then why not let the police handle him? He should pay for what he's done."

Joe sighed. "I realize that you haven't entered the Academy yet but you already know more than you should from your parents. We Watchers take care of our own. Robert's death was a suicide according to the police investigation. It's best to leave it at that. Besides… James drew some rough assignments over the years."

"Does Lynn know? About the Watchers, I mean. I don't really know her… but if I were her… I'd want the truth."

Joe shook his head. "James decided to keep that from her. Most children don't learn about us until they're grown." He looked at her almost wistfully a moment, and then shook his head, rubbing a hand through his graying hair. "So… how about lunch?"

"You're changing the subject," she laughed. "I can recall you, mom, and dad doing that whenever you'd come for dinner and I'd enter the room."

"Yeah… well you were a kid and there were things you didn't need to know."

"But Mom left the Watchers after I was born, and Dad never talked about his work until he told me last spring," Amy continued. "I always thought there was more going on between the three of you."

Joe was silent. Finally he shrugged. "We were just talking grown-up stuff. You need to ask your mom about that one of these days," he said with a hint of regret.

"Fine! So you still won't tell me what's going on. I suppose your taking over the bureau here was the reason you didn't make it for Christmas this year."

"Yeah… been real busy. Besides, Lynn was alone and I thought I'd better spend the holidays with her. My sister died late last year… and with the way things were between her and her dad… it was best I spent the holidays with her."

Amy laughed. "Oh I quite agree! Real family is important. I just missed seeing you. I think Mom did too. She seemed awfully subdued this year."

Joe said nothing. There were things he wanted to say… things he'd promised not to say… not until Laura said otherwise. "Oh… I'm certain she didn't miss this mug of mine hanging around," he finally replied.

"You sell yourself short 'Uncle' Joe. She's always happy to see you. She told me once that you were one of her best friends."

Joe nodded. "Yeah… friends."

"I think there's more to it than that," laughed Amy. "You two always look so uncomfortable when the Academy is discussed. One of these days I want to hear what you two did that got you both in so much trouble."

Joe squirmed a bit. "Well… that's up to your mother."

"Oh I know. But enough about my family. How's your immortal? Are you still Watching him?"

"MacLeod? Yeah. I'm still Watching him," replied with a slight hesitation. Amy really shouldn't know about MacLeod yet. Evidently she'd been researching on her own.

"I heard he's been active this last year." Amy leaned forward. Since learning of immortals last spring, she'd been interested in all she could learn about them. Norman Thomas was head of the research library in England… and he was clearly grooming Amy to take over for him. But there was an intensity about her questions that made Joe wonder if she would ever be satisfied as "just" a researcher.

Joe nodded. "So… about that lunch?" he said, trying again to change the subject. Until she entered the Academy… Amy was on a need to know basis. And she didn't need to know about MacLeod.

Amy grinned and nodded. There were times when she looked so much like Laura at that age… it amazed him. He smiled warmly at the memory of the elfin Laura.

"Are you cooking?"

Joe shook his head. "Not unless you want toast and coffee. The larder's a bit bare."

Amy looked at him with concern. "Are you taking care of yourself? I mean… are you eating all right?"

"Joe laughed. "I'm fine. I just usually take meals at the office and with the holidays, I just haven't been to the grocery store."

"Then you have to let me help while I'm here," she said with a sigh.

"About that… how long are you here for?"

"A week. The winter term starts in ten days."

Joe shrugged into his coat and the two of them left for lunch, but his thoughts were long ago… and far away… of another luncheon… and what happened after.

London, England, 1970 

"I am _so_ bored," Laura Ayers-Brennan whispered to Joe Dawson. They were in the stacks of the library shelving books. As a rule… new Watchers, once they'd finished the indoctrination classes at the Academy were assigned to one of the libraries to do historical research. It was a way for them to be come more familiar with the scope of history about immortals before actually going into the field and Watching one.

Joe grinned. He knew exactly how she felt. Moreover… he was determined not to let the Tribunal pigeonhole him in here. He wanted field-duty… no matter what.

"Where's Norman today?" he asked looking around. The head librarian and Laura's husband was nowhere to be seen.

"He got called away last night on assignment. Something brewing in Asia was all I heard."

"Then there's hope for us! We might get out of this hole yet."

Laura laughed merrily. "You make research sound boring."

"I just don't want to be stuck doing this the rest of my life. I want to be out and doing… not studying."

"Norman says he doubts the Tribunal will ever go for it."

Joe glanced down. He shook his head. "Damn it! I can do this. I can hide in a crowd. We need all types of people on the job."

"I think they worry that you couldn't stick with an immortal on the run."

"Then I'll take one not on the run… a sedentary one who's settled into a life. Hell, I'll even take a new one!"

"Oh I think you can do the job…" Laura said honestly. "But Norman says they worry about… well… you know."

"Norman can be a putz sometimes," Joe said with a smirk.

"Hey… that putz is my husband," Laura laughed, hitting him lightly on the arm. She looked around and then whispered… "But you're right. He's very proper and sometimes I could just strangle him."

"At least he's not standing in your way to get a field assignment," Joe grumbled.

Laura shelved the last book and took his arm. "He's very proud that I did so well and scored so highly… not as high as you of course. And thanks for the tutoring, by the way."

"Glad to help," Joe winked. "I just really want to have a chance to prove myself. The Watchers have given me a whole new world to explore and I don't want to spend it in some library. I want to be out there on the front line… Watching and recording."

"So… what shall we do for lunch today?" she said as they pushed the cart back to the circulation desk.

"There's pub over on Clarendon Row that features good music. I've been wanting to give it a try."

"A pub? For lunch?" Laura looked at him in fake shock. Then she laughed. "Why not. I'd love to listen to American music. Rock and roll?"

Joe smirked. "What makes you think it's American music?"

"Because I know you and your taste in music," she grinned.

Well lunch had involved drinks… and the afternoon had turned into a day off from the library… and an unofficial surveillance of Warren Cochrane who'd been at the pub… _sans_ Watcher.

They'd had one drink while keeping an eye on Cochrane, whom Joe had immediately recognized… and then several others as the afternoon had dragged on. Cochrane was making notes in a journal… and they needed to look busy so that their continued presence did not raise alarms.

When he finally left a few hours later, they'd both had a few too many drinks, and giggled and laughed as they followed the immortal down the street. Both of them were excited by the opportunity that had presented itself and were determined to stick with Cochrane.

When he stopped to stare in a store window and happened to glance in their direction, Laura had grabbed Joe and kissed him. He'd kissed her back. By the time they pulled out of their embrace… Cochrane had vanished. Then they'd kissed again… Cochrane forgotten in the moment.

They'd ended up back at Joe's flat and had explored one another for the remainder of the day and into the night. By the time morning had come, Laura had felt guilty and had begged Joe not to tell anyone. She loved Norman and wanted to make her marriage work.

Joe had sadly agreed.

Norman was gone for nearly a month. By the time he returned, Laura had discovered that she was pregnant. "It could be yours… or it could be his," Laura had told Joe in confidence. "Right now… I have to believe it's his."

Joe had nodded. "I won't make any problems for you."

"Thank you," she said tearfully.

A few months later she asked for a sabbatical and after Amy's birth, she'd asked to be removed from the ranks of active Watchers. Norman had been disappointed that she wouldn't continue, but had ceased to push. Joe found himself more and more uncomfortable in the library… and more and more eager to get out on his own. He wanted the life that Norman had… or at least the wife and daughter… but he wanted to be on the active roles even more.

Amy was three when Laura had a blood test done and discovered that Amy wasn't her husband's daughter. By that time, Joe had wrangled his first field assignment… Roy Ferrer… and was based out of St. Louis. Ferrer had been saxophonist with one of the local blues bands… and the music had completely stolen Joe's soul. Rock and roll was pushed to the sidelines as he picked up his guitar again and sat in with the band a few times.

He'd even gotten to know Roy one to one… although the immortal had never known about the Watchers. It had broken Joe's heart when Ferrer had a run-in with local boxing promoter Tommy Sullivan over a bet and had lost the challenge. But Joe had proven that he could do the job and was Watching Liza Grant when she'd returned to London and he had followed her.

The return to London had allowed him to resume his friendship with the Thomas' and get to know the little girl that he now knew was the daughter he could never claim. She looked a little like Joe's sister Catherine had looked at that age. Laura had confirmed it to him privately and again asked for his silence. It was one of the hardest things that Joe had ever done.

"Just let me know her growing up. I'll be discreet," he'd told Laura sadly. Somehow… it had worked… Joe became the kindly "uncle" who visited occasionally. It was all so very civilized. He and Laura had never revisited that long ago afternoon… when the moment had meant more than their futures… or the lives they'd chosen to live.

----------

"You're very quiet," Amy said over lunch.

Joe shrugged and laughed, "Well I've got a lot on my mind these days. Why don't you tell me all about school… and boyfriends."

"Uncle Joe… you are as bad as my mom. She's always asking me about the boys I date," she replied, the color traveling over her cheeks with a rush.

"That good… huh?" he teased and she laughed as she shook her head.

"No comment!" she laughed and swallowed down a gulp of water a bit too quickly.

Joe smiled at her… wondering what it would have been like to have truly been her father… and not just biologically. He could see so much of himself in her personality. He had a feeling that she'd make a very good Watcher one day. But that was life he'd never had… one that he'd let slip away. In the end… he supposed that he'd made the right decision… focusing on his career to the exclusion of a personal life… but he did regret not knowing Amy better. He polished off his bourbon with a rush… and pushed away the remnants of a life that might have been.

At Watcher Headquarters, Mike Barrett scanned the reports coming out of Europe where he'd left Martin Hyde. He ought to still be on him… and hated that he wasn't. At the same time he had to admit that it was a relief not to be on the man day and night. Mike had always found Hyde's pursuit of young immortals… uncomfortable. True… he didn't take their heads… but he played head games with them until they raced back to their mentors… and then Hyde revealed himself. Barrett had seen several good immortals go down in the last few years… and he hadn't liked it.

Perhaps if James Horton had approached him at the right moment… he might have agreed with the man. But Horton and he had never crossed paths… and now they never would.

An icon blinked on his monitor indicating he had email. Barrett glanced around to be certain no one was about and clicked on it.

It was from Jack Shapiro… wanting to know how the surveillance of Dawson was going. Mike sighed. He hated this job even more than Watching Hyde. Dawson was one of the good guys. He was all that was right about the Watchers and his loyalty to them was uncompromised. It was just that Mike had seen Dawson talking to MacLeod on several occasions since his arrival. There was definitely something going on. Still… he wanted to give Dawson the benefit of a doubt.

Maybe MacLeod called him. Maybe Dawson told him nothing. Maybe pigs could fly. Joe had brought in a recruit last week… a local television personality who had seen a fight between MacLeod and Anthony Gallen. Her presence had interrupted the fight. But Dawson had brought her in for a debriefing.

"She's a smart cookie," he'd told Mike. "I'd rather tell her the truth and get her on our side before she decides this is all grist for the rumor mill and goes public with it."

Mike had reluctantly agreed. Dawson was right to bring her in… but Mike didn't think that Randi MacFarland would ever be a good Watcher. She was too much of a reporter. He feared that she might have to be silenced one day… as a way to keep her mouth shut.

Even now, she was sitting in the library researching the handful of people she'd figured out were immortals. Mike had seen her earlier, making notes on a steno pad that he'd have to be certain to confiscate before she left the building. Whatever life she had once hoped for, Mike knew that she'd have to make peace with another one. He really wanted Dawson to ship her butt over to Europe and let the Tribunal deal with her. They could decide whether it would be better to put a bullet in her head or to admit her to the Academy next term.

Mike really didn't want to be the one to have to decide her fate. He didn't want to be the one who put a bullet between her eyes. Shuddering slightly at what he might be called upon to do if Randi MacFarland became too much to handle, he typed in a response to Shapiro's inquiry.

"All quiet on the western front," he wrote and then signed his initials. He'd let Dawson inform the others about MacFarland and then he'd do whatever they asked of him. But for now… he'd bide his time patiently. Besides… sooner of later MacLeod would make a move that Dawson couldn't follow… and Barrett would have to fill in. If Dawson knew that Mike was to replace him as MacLeod's Watcher when and if he was made permanent supervisor… he didn't show it. If anything… he seemed to regard MacLeod as "his" immortal. The man was definitely over-involved and had lost sight of the "big picture" of immortals as spanning the tapestry of history. Still… he'd hold his tongue for the moment about his suspicions and see what came of them. Maybe Dawson would come clean himself about his meetings with MacLeod.

-----


	39. The Fighter, part 1

**39  
_The Fighter, part one_**

Around them… the crowd was going wild. There was nothing like the lure of bloodshed… or the happenchance that one man would beat the brains out of another… to bring out the beast and barbarian of the normal, modern, civilized man.

Watching both Richie and Charlie go crazy right along with everyone else while he sat there calmly observing them and recalling of all things, the French Revolution and the cries of the peasants for another head… no matter whose it was… amused Duncan MacLeod.

He'd once asked Darius if the crowds at the gladiator contests in ancient Rome were anything like this… only to have Darius chuckle. "Before my time," he'd admitted. "When I reached Rome… I was the barbarian who destroyed it… remember?" Of course he hadn't truly destroyed Rome… no one had. He'd only been part of a change in government… a hostile takeover to put it in modern parlance. Duncan chuckled slightly at the thought… and then sobered, realizing again how much he missed his friend and his sense of humor. Horton had killed so many immortals that it was foolish to believe that he'd spared Darius.

In dreams he could still imagine Darius' body in the apse of the church. That it hadn't been there… that there'd been no blood… that Horton had protested his innocence in that slaying… had done nothing to alleviate Duncan's fears that Darius was dead and that all he'd been was lost forever. He still maintained a small corner of hope in his soul that maybe… just maybe… Darius had escaped. But as the days and weeks passed without a word, that hope became smaller and more elusive… a fool's dream, perhaps.

Fitzcairn had remained in Paris and had heard nothing regarding their missing friend. "It's as if the earth has swallowed him up. Do you suppose this Horton fellow buried him alive someplace?" he'd asked recently when Duncan had called him there.

Duncan had not said anything… but it was a possibility.

The crowd by now was on its feet… chanting and urging the fighters on.

Richie slapped his arm. "Did you see that blow Mac? Man what a hit that was!" Charlie's face was covered with a wide grin. He was definitely enjoying himself. As a martial arts instructor, he was no doubt breaking down the moves and committing them to memory. The next time they sparred, Duncan was certain that Charlie would try some of what he'd seen.

The Highlander closed his eyes and for a moment was in the ring himself in the days of bare-knuckle brawling. He'd gone up against an opponent nearly twice his size… with a hammering blow that had come close to breaking Mac's neck when it landed. It had been one of the most brutal fights that he'd ever been in.

The bell rang… signaling the end of the round.

Duncan's eyes opened as both Richie and Charlie took their seats on either side of him and carried on a conversation about the match and the opponents… finishing each other's sentences and peppering their commentary with air punches. The tickets he'd gotten from his old friend Thomas Sullivan, manager of one of the fighters, were being well and enthusiastically used. Tessa had begged off as boxing, "Is not my thing. I intend to take a long bubble-bath and read that new Danielle Steele novel." Duncan smiled, knowing that Tessa would be enthusiastic later tonight. She always was when she read _those_ books. Already he felt the stirrings of anticipated passion.

The bell rang again. It was the eighth round. The crowd was again on its feet.

"I don't get it Mac?" Richie was saying as he applauded. "I'd have thought you'd have really been into this."

Duncan shrugged. "Maybe I've seen too much fighting to get excited about it." His words were lost in the roar of the crowd as both men came out swinging.

Later, he joined the still pumped-up Richie and Charlie, still finishing each other's sentences as they relived the fight blow-by-blow, as they used the pass Duncan had been given, to gain admittance to the dressing rooms below. They were about to meet the man of the hour… the fighter… George Belcher and his manager… Thomas Sullivan, Esq.

"Mac!" the little man said as he opened the door of George's dressing room. He grinned expectantly. "You came."

"I said I would," Duncan replied with a lopsided grin. He introduced Richie and Charlie, both of whom had hands enthusiastically pumped by Sullivan as he greeted them warmly. "Any friend of Mac's is a friend of mine," he said genuinely.

While the two were speaking with George for a moment, Tommy raised an eyebrow at Duncan and inclined his head toward Richie. Duncan shook his. Tommy nodded as if in agreement. Then he was once more the manager… ready to beat the drum for "his" fighter. "I'm hoping to get some financial backing. You know me, Mac… I find raw talent and I want to develop it. But these things take money."

"You're hitting me up for a loan, Sully?" Duncan chuckled. He grinned wider. "I don't think so… sorry."

"But Mac… you saw him fight! I need to curry some interest in him… grease some palms to get him on the better lists."

"Sully… if he's that good… you don't have to grease palms."

They were interrupted when the door opened and two smooth-looking, well-dressed men entered. The hairs on Duncan's neck bristled slightly as they smiled like sharks, one of them gesturing at George in invitation and then slight applause. "Well done Georgie boy. You have a real chance at making it in this game with the right backing."

Sully bumped up against him. "I told you Coleman, you don't talk to my fighter. You talk to me."

The man laughed. "Sully… you don't have two dimes to rub together… much less money for a proper training facility or to pay a staff to work with him. I can do things for George that you never will be able to.

"Like ruin him?" Sully responded with anger. Duncan pulled him back, but was rebuffed. "All you see is the almighty dollar sign. You know nothing of truly training a young man in this game." Sully lifted his fists in a bare-knuckle stance that Duncan knew was all too familiar.

"Cool it Sully," Duncan tried again. "Not here and not now."

"Yeah, Sully," George broke in. "They just want to talk. What's wrong with listening?"

"Wrong?" Sully rounded toward George. "You don't know about the scum that passes for legitimacy in this business. You made me manager… now let me manage!" Sully turned back. "Now get out of here."

Coleman threw up his hands. "Fine… fine. I just came in to congratulate George. Later," he saluted George, snapped his fingers at his associate, and the two left laughing.

"Whew," said Charlie. "I thought for sure there was gonna be another match."

"Yeah," agreed Richie. He tapped George on the shoulder. "You were great in the ring… but I gotta scram… late date."

"Me too," nodded Charlie. "Helen is waiting.

They bid the others farewell and strolled out talking about the women in their lives.

Sully sighed deeply as he watched them go. "I'm sorry if I ran them off, Mac… but I don't want George mixed up with Coleman and his kind."

Duncan stared at the closed door thoughtfully. A cold shiver ran down his back. He shuddered and threw it off. "Sully, listen to me. If he tries anything… promise me you won't take it personal."

"Mac…" Sully said, drawing it out. "Would I do anything like that?"

Duncan stared at him thoughtfully and then glanced at George. "I just mean, let me look into his business practices and do some research on him. He may be unpleasant… but he may not be doing anything illegal."

"Fine… I'll be good," Sully agreed. He slapped George's arm. "Finish cleaning up… Mac's taking us to dinner."

Duncan's eyes widened. "I am?"

"Yeah… a great little sports bar. They have the best buffalo wings this side of Buffalo," Sully grinned. "Besides… you and me got business to talk."

"We do?"

"Yeah… I was wondering about using your place for George to practice in while we're in town."

"The antique store?" Duncan said in mock horror.

Sully laughed and pretended to box with him. "Yeah… right. Mac… always the kidder."

An hour later, as the three men entered the sports bar and had a seat, Sully's entire demeanor changed. At the sight of the thin, waif-like blonde waitress who introduced herself as Iris, the blustering Irishman became little more than an inarticulate puddle of goo. Duncan grinned.

After Iris took their order and walked away, Duncan noticed that Coleman and his associate had approached George, standing near the poker machines. He sighed. "Sully," he suddenly said. "I've reconsidered about backing your fighter. I'll put up some money… but I want it all in writing so that we are very clear about this."

"Will you?" Sully beamed. "Mac… that's great!" For a moment, Sully was once more certain of himself… then glanced at Iris giving their order to the bartender. "And about her… is there anything you can do to help me woo her?"

"Woo her?" laughed Duncan. "Sully… she's a modern woman. Just ask her out."

Sully blushed and lowered his head. "What if she says no… Mac… let's face it… I may be immortal and a helluva fighter… but I'm no catch in the looks department."

Duncan smirked teasingly. "No? I hadn't noticed." He punched Sully companionably. "You'll be fine. Here she comes again."

Sully clamped his mouth shut, shook his head, and said nothing intelligible when Iris brought them their drinks. "Your food order will be out soon." She waited a moment as if waiting for Sully to say something. He mumbled "thanks". With a sigh and shake of her shoulders she walked off.

"I think she likes you," Duncan chuckled.

Sully's eyes widened. "You do? Then help me with her."

"Oh no," laughed Duncan as he sipped his beer. "I'll help with George and the money. But for help in the romance department… I think someone else would be better."

Sully leaned in to him. "Who?"

Duncan chuckled. "Tell you later." He kept the conversation light as he watched George and Coleman. The rival manager handed George a business card. The fighter seemed thankful. Duncan had a bad feeling about this situation… a very bad feeling; and wondered what he could do to head off disaster.

Honky-tonk music began to blare from the jukebox and the sounds of revelry were all about him. But under it all… Duncan heard a slight chuckle… and the sound of a ball bouncing off of a smooth, hard surface.


	40. The Fighter, part 2

**40  
_The Fighter, part two _**

Arriving at Charlie's _dojo_ in mid-morning, Duncan was glad to see that Sully had taken advantage of his offer of a rent-free space to work out while the two were in Seacouver, and that Richie had let them in. He'd worried that the young man might not be up and about early this morning. Well, he was up and about, if not exactly awake.

Sitting behind the desk in Mac's office, Richie waved weakly and then returned to holding his head and massaging his temples as the sounds of George hitting the punching bag echoed in the nearly empty gym. With each punch, Richie seemed to pale and shudder.

"You were up late?" asked Duncan as he hung his coat in the office. Beneath it he had on his running sweats. He hadn't yet had his run and planned to set off from here once he was certain all was running smoothly. Although Charlie was in charge and Richie was supposed to be his assistant, Duncan felt that Sully and his fighter were his responsibility.

"Yeah. Angie and I went to an all-night rave down near the docks. I got in about five-thirty and Sully and George were knocking the door down at six."

"Go back to bed," chuckled the Highlander paternally. "Get some sleep."

Richie glanced up with a weak smile. "Thanks Mac!" He rose and headed out the door but stopped and looked back at Duncan impishly. "Oh… and the floor needs sweeping." He ducked as Duncan threw a towel at him and headed for the freight elevator to the loft. Duncan doubted he see Richie again until sometime this afternoon.

Focusing on George, Duncan nodded and mused at the young fighter's technique. For all his bluster, Sully was a good judge of fighters and a good teacher. Too small to fight anymore, Sully still knew how to manage fighters… if not money. Duncan sighed. He had a feeling that this might be an expensive investment as well as one that was taking him away from the antique store.

He'd left Tessa still abed and grinning in pleasure after last night. When he'd gotten home she'd had candles lit, soft music playing, and champagne by the bed.

"Are we celebrating something?" Duncan had asked her.

"C'mere you. I was just missing you. It works in the romance novels." She'd pulled him onto the bed with a passionate kiss while her hands and his… were fumbling to remove his clothes.

_Guess it works in real life, too_, he'd thought and then concentrated on her. As always, he couldn't get enough of her… as if he'd lost her and only just found her again. He'd hated to leave her this morning. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he'd whispered before leaving. Tessa had nodded sleepily and turned over in contentment. It had taken all of his resolve not to slip back into bed with her once more.

Following the journey of the creaky elevator toward the loft, Duncan wondered if Richie had company that he'd wanted to return to. He shook his head. Richie was nineteen now. He had his own place… well sorta… and a job… more or less. He didn't need Duncan always looking over his shoulder. Besides, the main thing was that he have as normal a life as possible. Duncan didn't want to jeopardize that in any way. He'd committed to watching him, even as he was watching a handful of others, but he was beginning to worry about Richie being too involved in his life. Something could happen to him before he was old enough and strong enough to survive in the game. An icy finger seemed to plunge into his heart and for a moment he saw Richie's headless corpse at his feet and his bloody _katana_ in his hand. Maybe it was time to push him out and away.

With a rueful smile, the Highlander turned to greet Sully. "Glad to see you found the place."

"Yeah… thanks Mac. This'll give us some privacy while I get Georgie here ready for his next fight."

"And save money," Duncan replied.

"That too. Listen Mac. You said someone would help me with Iris. Who'd you have in mind?"

"You sound more interested in Iris than in your fighter."

"He's a smart kid. Now about Iris…" Sully's voice trailed off and his mouth dropped open. At the doorway stood Charlie and a knockout of a woman saying goodbye with an intent kiss. After she'd left, Charlie turned, bouquet in hand and a wide grin on his face. "Yes, MacLeod, she gave me flowers."

Duncan grinned and leaned down to Sully. "Ever read **_Cyrano de Bergerac_**?" Sully looked confused. "Well Cyrano Sully… meet your Christian." Sully looked even more confused. Duncan tried again. "Charlie has a way with women. He can help you. Besides… I'm his boss." Duncan winked at his friend.

Light dawned in Sully's eyes and he grinned.

By nightfall, Charlie was exasperated. He'd spent the entire day, at MacLeod's request, trying to explain and show MacLeod's friend Sully how to be smooth, accomplished, and at ease in wooing fair maiden. He didn't feel like they'd gotten anywhere. They'd walked. They'd talked. They'd shadow-boxed. They'd eaten. Still… once they entered the sports bar, Sully seemed to shrink inside himself when he noticed Iris.

"I… I… I…" he mumbled when she waved at him.

"Sully… we've been through this," Charlie groaned. "Just relax." He went through the practice dialog one more time. Sully closed his eyes and repeated it by rote. Then Iris arrived at their table with a cheery, "Hi Sully. Want to see a menu?"

Sully blanked and Charlie felt like melting into the table. Iris laughed and wandered off to get their menus.

"Sully… you practiced this. It's not hard. Just talk to her like you'd talk to me or Mac or one of the guys."

Sully looked shocked. "That's disgusting. I need to tell her that her eyes are like limpid pools of light."

Charlie guffawed. "Man, what century are you living in?"

"The twentieth last time I checked," Sully replied morosely.

"So just talk to her and let her know how you feel," Charlie insisted. He glanced up as another waitress arrived with menus.

"Iris is our waitress," Sully said brusquely.

"Not any more. She got a special assignment," the young woman said.

Sully glanced around. Iris was just disappearing up the stairs. Something broke loose in Sully's mind as he stood up, roughly pushed the waitress out of his way and growling, followed Iris up the stairs. What he saw at the top of the stairs in the private bar area confirmed his worst fears… George was kissing and running his hands over Iris.

"Get off of her!" Sully yelled and leaped at George. His fighter lifted his head in confusion. Iris screamed as Sully pummeled George to the floor and kept pounding away at him oblivious to George's apologies or to Iris' protestations.

Finally, the red fire that encompassed him cooled to the inky black that usually followed such outbursts. Sully was far more dangerous in this frame of mind as those who had crossed him over the centuries discovered. He killed them. Anyone who dared to cheat him, or try to rob him of what was his met Death in the form of Thomas Sullivan, Esq. The fight promoter who'd ordered Sully's first death, was only the first to die at his hands.

Sully clenched and unclenched his fists, letting the black wash over him as he planned George's death.

"Sully I didn't have a choice," he heard Iris say. "Rodney owes Coleman money. I was working it off."

"I didn't know Sully. If I'd known, I'd never have accepted Coleman's offer of Iris' hospitality. It won't happen again," George was saying at the same time.

_Coleman!_ Darkly Sully turned to glance down at the upraised and shocked faces of the patrons. He found the owner and fight promoter in a corner booth with his goon… laughing. Sully turned back, noticing that welts and bruises were already appearing on George's face. "Now you do know," he said darkly, pivoted and stormed down the stairs and out of the bar without a word to anyone.

Man!" moaned Charlie as he fumbled for money to call MacLeod. "MacLeod is gonna kill me," he said as he punched in his boss' number.

Duncan pounded on Sully's door. "I know you're in there!" he said with a raised voice.

Sully opened the door sheepishly and turned away. "Good thing I know you're a friend," Sully said. He crossed to the window, staring out despondently. After the black of last evening, he felt only the cold gray of the aftermath. Life seemed something that others lived… while he just floated along in an endless fog. It would part, he knew. It would part and he'd find a new fighter. He'd get excited all over again until something once more set him off.

"You have to talk to George," MacLeod was saying. Sully looked up at him numbly. "You can't let things stay this way."

"It doesn't matter MacLeod. I doubt he'll see me. He's Coleman's man now. Besides, it's not really your business is it?"

Duncan chuckled. "You forget. You made it my business when you made me a partner… remember?"

Sully shrugged. He'd lost money and fighters before when the madness took him. This was no different.

"I made an investment in George at your insistence. I don't like losing money. Let's go."

Sully nodded. What really bothered him was that Iris likely thought he was a maniac. He'd likely lost her because of what had happened. Reluctantly he followed MacLeod into the hallway and down one flight to George's room. At his friend's insistence, he knocked, and then shrugged. "He's not here… let's go."

"Knock again." There was a dark expression on MacLeod's face and a dangerous tone to his words. Sully knocked again.

A battered George finally opened the door a crack. "What do you want?"

Sully glanced at MacLeod. "I came to apologize." He stuck out the hand of friendship. "I don't know what came over me." That was the truth. These moods came on him suddenly. And Death was always a part of the aftermath.

George opened the door wider. "I don't know Sully."

"He's really sorry," Duncan said. "Besides… we still have a business arrangement to discuss."

George looked down, a flush rising over his face beneath the welts, cuts, and contusions. "I don't know sully… Mr. MacLeod."

Sully stepped closer… his hands open before him, his voice pleading. "It won't happen again. George… you know me. I'm not a bad man and I've always looked out for you. Scum like Coleman will use you and discard you."

"Listen to Sully," Duncan added. "He does know the business and he'll never sell you short."

Sully tried a weak pleading look. Finally George nodded and clasped Sully's hand. "Okay. We'll give it another go."

"Good lad, Georgie…" Sully said and he meant it. "Good lad."

"Now, I'll meet with Coleman and have a talk with him about bothering you anymore," Duncan said with relief.

"You haven't heard?" George said. "It was just on the news."

"What was on the news?" Duncan asked, glancing at Sully. He had a bad feeling about this.

"Coleman and his driver were found dead in his car this morning," George intoned. He shrugged. "If Sully hadn't apologized, I'd have had no one to turn to."

Dead?" said Sully and shook his head sympathetically. "Terrible. Just terrible. Do the police know who would do this horrible crime?"

George shook his head. "No… they have no leads according to the news. Although… Coleman had some ties to organized crime."

"He did? I'm shocked. I'm truly shocked." Sully replied.

Duncan stared at his friend, thinking of another time they'd had a similar conversation about another fight promoter who'd been murdered after crossing Sully. He narrowed his eyes. He didn't want to wrongly suspect his friend of this…especially as friendships with other immortals were rare and always fraught with peril if they disagreed. Still… mortals had but one life. Those who broke the law should pay their debt to society and not to an immortal. "How were they killed?" Duncan asked.

George shrugged and muttered as he turned away. "Don't know. Shot, I guess." He picked up a small ice pack and held it to his nose. Obviously he wouldn't be sparring with anyone today.

"Let's have you looked at," Duncan said gently and held out an arm to motion the two to accompany him to a doctor. Inwardly, he wondered if one of these men had been involved in the death of Coleman and his bodyguard. If so… Duncan would lose either a friend… or an investment.


	41. The fighter, part 3

**41  
_The Fighter, part 3 _**

Days passed, then a week. In that time, Duncan watched the newspapers for information about Coleman's death, reading that the police were mystified but believed a contract hitter had done the job. Gradually Duncan let his suspicions die.

At the _dojo_, George continued to work out under Sully's tutelage, and if the two men seemed distant with one another, it was only to be expected. But George healed quickly. He was a fighter and accustomed to beatings in the ring. He was determined to give this chance at the prize his all… and if he harbored any ill feelings toward Sully, he masked them.

Sully was… well… Sully. Whatever had happened seemed forgotten. He was once more in the now, hyper and eager for George to have another shot at a fight.

With Coleman's death, much of the professional fighting in Seacouver was on hold as businessmen and others jockeyed for position.

At the antique store, it looked as if 1993 would be a banner year. They'd had a major commission to help with the decorating of one of Seacouver's stately old homes. The decorator, a friend of Tessa's, had relied on **_MacLeod & Noel_** for many fine pieces. Duncan had gone to New York to make purchases and had even made a short trip to Paris to acquire some rare finds for the job. Tessa had even been commissioned to do some artwork for the formal gardens. In short, things were looking good.

Richie had reluctantly signed up for some college classes at Tessa's insistence. She'd even footed the bill for his tuition. "Call it a Christmas present," she'd laughed as he'd blushed upon looking at the check. "And I expect for you to become a doctor or a lawyer or whatever you want."

"Gee Tess," Richie had said, "I was such a dolt in high school."

"You were a bright young man who was bored and unchallenged," Tessa had said smoothly. "You'll be fine." She'd smiled winningly at him and Richie had agreed to go, although it hadn't kept him from complaining every chance Duncan saw him.

Duncan smiled, hoping that college and Richie would work well together. He deserved it. He deserved every chance he could get.

Besides Sully, Duncan had sensed no other immortals in the area for several weeks. No roaming headhunters… no old friends with a penchant for showing up unexpected… and no old enemies with a grudge. Life seemed good.

Across town, Joe Dawson read through the reports of his people and worried about what he read. Part of him wanted to approach MacLeod and warn him that danger was on the horizon. But the Highlander didn't want him around.

Randi MacFarland was going through informal training and education. Her life here was too visible for her to just up and leave suddenly. Joe had made arrangements for her to be trained here until she could leave her job and travel to the Watcher Academy in London for formal training.

At a thought of the Academy, Joe thought about Amy Brennan-Thomas… the daughter he could never acknowledge, and about her mother… one of the loves of his life. "Damn," he muttered and closed the folder he was reading to open another one. But visions of both Amy and Laura danced before his eyes.

"You seem elsewhere."

Joe glanced up at Mike Barrett currently leaning against the open door of Joe's office.

"Yeah, well I'm right here. Whatdaya need?" Joe dropped the closed folder onto the desk and sat back, shifting slightly as his prostheses were bothering him. He was due for a five thousand mile checkup he supposed.

"Nothing. I just wondered if you'd seen those reports out of Paris and New York?"

"The ones about immortals being shot and then beheaded? Yeah… I saw them."

"No Watcher present."

"Yeah. Well… we aren't the damn FBI or CIA! We're historians."

"It doesn't bother you that someone may be targeting immortals… no truly gifted ones in the game yet… but still…"

"Hell yes it bothers me. So what?"

Barrett straightened from his slouch. "Just thought I'd mention it." He winked and walked off.

Joe rubbed his beard. Truth was… he was very worried… but that was Paris… half a world away despite MacLeod's little jog there recently. And New York… well the Big Apple was always a rough town. MacLeod had been there briefly as well. Joe pulled the files wondering how the dates of the slayings and MacLeod's business trips matched up.

Sully had always believed that revenge was best when served hot. He seldom liked to wait when he'd made up his mind about paying someone back for an insult… real or imagined. But this time, he tried to let it go. He focused on training George, and rebuilding a friendship that seemed damaged beyond repair. After all, Mac was right. He'd brought MacLeod into this partnership and he needed the funds, especially as George's next fight was put off for two weeks. Sully didn't want to go up against MacLeod for any reason… whether immortal business or fight business.

Mac was a big man… but unlike many big men, he moved like a fighter. He was light on his feet and fast. Sully had seen just how fast numerous times over the century or so he'd known MacLeod. The man was a contender for the fabled prize. Sully… well Sully knew he existed on borrowed time. As long as he stayed away from the dangerous ones and kept a low profile, he might survive indefinitely… or at least until it came down to just a few immortals. He wanted to keep men like MacLeod on his side so that he'd have someone to back him up.

"You're leading too much with your right, Georgie," he said and patiently showed his fighter the way to vary his attack… to mask his true intentions in the ring. When George did a series that pleased Sully, he grinned and patted the man on his arm.

From the far side of the _dojo_, MacLeod watched them closely. Sully as usual seemed to think that by moving on, everyone would forget what had happened. But there were moments when George looked at Sully darkly… and MacLeod worried about them both. This seemed a recipe for disaster.

They finished for the afternoon and Sully began pestering Charlie for some more tips on "wooing fair maiden." Duncan felt uneasy. Sully's attitudes about women were still much as they'd been when he'd been a boy. Women were idols to be worshipped. Charlie had already been making remarks to Duncan about how much Sully seemed to be a man out of time. Maybe it was time to step in and have a talk with Sully about a number of things.

An hour later, he went for a run with Sully tagging along with him.

"Ahh roadwork, the secret of endurance in the ring," Sully said, keeping up fairly easily with MacLeod. He was sweating profusely though and really wished the Highlander would stop for a short breather.

"Is that so," Duncan replied with a small smile. Arriving at the docks, Duncan slowed and stopped for a moment, stretching to stay warmed up.

"It's what I tell all my fighters."

"You're a man who knows how to train a fighter, Sully, but you have a lot to learn about really promoting one."

I've been in the business almost two hundred years," Sully protested.

"And where are you? Still hustling for pennies. I'll bet you have nothing invested."

"Every penny I get goes to my fighters. You know that Mac. I'm not a cheat and I'm not a bad man. But I expect honesty and fair play or else."

"Or else what?"

Sully shrugged. "I don't let people cross me Mac. If they try to cheat me… I stand up for myself."

"Sully… against mortals you… we… have an unfair advantage. They are not the enemy and they have only one life to live. It's not up to us to take it from them."

"Mac… you can't let men like Coleman walk all over you and then walk away. It's bad for business."

"Whose business, Sully… yours or theirs?"

"Business… you know."

"Sully… did you kill Coleman?"

The directness of MacLeod's question gave Sully pause. He stared directly into the Highlander's eyes as if hurt that his friend would think that of him. "Mac…" he laughed good-naturedly. Slapping the Highlander's arm, Sully then turned and started off again.

Behind him, Duncan MacLeod stared after him thoughtfully. Finally he, too, began to run again. Maybe he should ask some discreet questions around police headquarters. But whom should he ask? And how could he do it and manage not to look interested. Damn! For once since he'd first met Randi MacFarland in Steveston in the fall of 1992, he almost wished she were still hanging around pestering him, and in the dark about immortals. Perhaps it was best if he investigated on his own.

"I tell you college is for the birds!" snapped Richie as he settled into the desk chair.

"No kid… ya gotta believe," laughed Sully. The late afternoon was bright and sunny and all seemed right with the world. He'd even managed to carry on a conversation with Iris last night about something other than the food on the menu. The sports bar had re-opened under new management, although the new owners were likely just as shady as Coleman. At least the employees still had jobs and Iris would no longer be forced to prostitute herself to cover Rodney's gambling debts. This alone had made Sully glad. Tonight he thought he'd try talking to her about a date… although the very thought of asking her out still made his knees weak.

"Did you go to college?" Richie teased.

"No… but I darn well wish I had," Sully replied honestly. "I just never had the funds." That was the truth. He'd never had more than a few nickels to call his own. The best he'd ever done was in St. Louis. He'd actually owned property there for while… a gym very much like this one. Sully smiled as he looked around. "Mac does very well for himself."

"Mac? Yeah. He and Tess are the greatest. Why they took me in after I tried to rob their place, and have been like the big brother and sister I never had."

Sully again faced Richie, this time with a bland smile. "You had no family?"

Richie shook his head. "Just years and years in foster care… a ward of the great state of Washington."

"Too bad. Yeah… Mac is great. He's a straight-up guy. As for his wife… I haven't had the pleasure."

"Man Tessa's a knockout," Richie said with youthful enthusiasm.

Sully shrugged with a smile. "Doesn't surprise me. Mac always did get all the pretty ones."

"But Tessa is the one he married," Richie said. The two men were silent a moment. Sully recalled all the women he'd ever seen MacLeod with and wondered what made this one so special. Richie focused instead on visualizing Tessa's laugh and Tessa's smile. He envied Duncan… and wondered if there was such a woman in his future. Angie was great… but Angie was a friend and while a close friend, Richie doubted the two would ever be much more than they were now.

"Anyway, I gotta go study," Richie finally said, breaking the long silence accented by the sounds of George's jumping with the rope.

"Yeah sure, kid," Sully said, already mentally preparing himself like Charlie had told him and practicing what to say to Iris tonight. He and George would have another month here but would leave after his fight. Sully was already looking into booking additional fights for his man.

George finished with the rope. "Is that it Sully? If so… I'll go shower and clean up."

"Yeah sure Georgie. I gotta be going anyway myself." He wanted to clean up so he'd look really nice tonight when he met Iris at the bar. Already in his head he heard himself asking her out for ice cream… no a movie… no… a walk in the park. He grinned. A walk that might include ice cream. Then again… it was January. Who eats ice cream in January? In fact… who goes for long romantic walks in the park in January? Sully clucked to himself as he left the _dojo_. This dating business was far rougher than the fight business.

Two hours later, he was in sports-coat and bowtie, nervously pulling at his collar as he entered the sports bar. Duffing his peaked cap and holding it under one arm, Sully glanced around looking for the object of his affections. He finally saw her laughing with another waitress as she loaded drinks onto a small tray. She looked happier than Sully had ever seen her. He smiled and sighed, giving her a slight wave as she saw him. He could swear her face lit up. Maybe Charlie was right, she really did like him somehow.

Then he saw to whom she was taking drinks… George Belcher. Sully's fighter was with a couple of other guys in suits who looked like businessmen. George grinned pleasantly at Iris when she arrived. One of his arms went around her hips and the two of them laughed as she set the drinks down.

Sully turned and stalked out. He'd been betrayed! And no one betrayed Thomas Sullivan and got away with it! No one!

Even as he stood in the darkness outside the bar, his vision was clouded with both red and black… and it wasn't the blinking neon sign.


	42. The Fighter, part 4

**42  
_The Fighter, part 4_**

Duncan let the phone ring several times.

"Who are you trying to call so early?" Tessa asked as she spread honey on an English muffin. She was dressed for working in her studio in one of Duncan's old shirts and in long pants that still showed off the curve of her amazing legs flawlessly.

"George, I set up a meeting with **KSEA**'s sports reporter last night. I figured we might get some publicity out of this if he did a feature on George."

"Duncan, you are really getting into this fight business. Is that wise?"

"The young man deserves the best Tessa. Sully can train him… but it will take more than just training if he's to have a shot at the title." Duncan hung up the phone, staring out the window and pondering the fact that George hadn't answered. "I'm going by the hotel."

"Won't you see him at the gym?" Tessa asked with a shake of her head to get her blonde curls out of her eyes.

"I want to talk to him without Sully around. I think he's still angry at Sully and I want to be certain he doesn't upset him."

"Why? What would Sully do?"

Duncan stared at her for a moment, then rose, kissed her and promised to see her later. He swiftly dressed and was out the door. He could hear Tessa already at work in her studio, as the sounds of the acetylene torch were evident. He hated leaving her in charge of the shop while he pursued his business venture. Perhaps he should look into hiring someone to replace Richie in watching the store on a daily basis. He filed it in the back of his mind to discuss with her later.

When he arrived at the low-rent hotel, he couldn't sense Sully about. Perhaps that was why he hadn't located George. Maybe the two of them were working out early today. Duncan flapped his arms in the cold, noticing the clouds of icy mist forming with each breath. It was no day for roadwork. He moved forward briskly and climbed the stairs two at a time until he reached George's floor. He paused and then noticed that while pulled to… the door hadn't latched. He pushed on it and slowly opened.

"George? It's Duncan MacLeod."

Silence and darkness. Duncan switched on the light switch and noticed that the room looked as if a struggle had gone on. He held his breath a moment and then slowly moved into the room. A body lay behind the sofa; a curtain pulled off the window half covering it. He froze and then gently knelt to one side to expose the face. It was George. The young fighter had been shot between the eyes.

Dropping the curtain, Duncan rose and backed out of the room, carefully wiping his fingerprints from the light switch and the surface of the door. The one thing he didn't need was to be involved in another murder. Had anyone seen him here? He closed his eyes as he stood in the hallway. He recalled the man behind the desk and an old woman who'd been in the hall when he knocked. "Damn!" he muttered quietly. There was no help for it now. Resolutely he pivoted to descend the stairs to the front desk. He'd have to be involved… if only to clear his name. This might take a while.

"Another murder… and Duncan MacLeod on the scene," smirked Sgt. Bennett a few hours later. The African-American detective owed his life to MacLeod, but right now, he didn't look as if he were willing to cut him any slack. He pushed his hat back on his head and then slipped his hands into his trousers. A toothpick could be seen rolling around in his mouth.

"I told you… George is a fighter I invested in. I set him up with an interview last night and came by this morning to see how it went. He was dead when I arrived."

The coroner spoke up from behind Bennett. "TOD was about midnight."

"You got an alibi for midnight?" Bennett asked.

"I was home making love to my wife."

"And she'll confirm that."

"Of course. Sgt. I have no reason to lie. George Belcher was a hell of a fighter and I stood to make a tidy sum once he hit the major circuit. His death is a tragedy."

The toothpick in Bennett's mouth changed positions as he smirked, "Especially to him."

Duncan sighed. "Of course… and to his family and his friends."

"You know who they are?"

Duncan shook his head. "His manager might know."

Bennett nodded. "And that would be Thomas Sullivan."

Duncan nodded. He'd rather have kept Sully's name out of this… but it was a matter of record.

"And Sullivan is missing."

Duncan shrugged. "He's not in his room downstairs."

Bennett leaned closer. "And you don't find that the least bit strange?"

Duncan crossed his arms in front him and shifted his weight. "A bit. But Sully didn't oversee every minute of George Belcher's life. Perhaps he's at the gym."

"That would be **_DeSalvo's Martial Arts_**?"

Duncan nodded.

Bennett turned and ordered a unit to swing by the _dojo_ and if Sullivan was there, bring him in for questioning. "You can go now… but don't leave town."

"Wouldn't think of it," Duncan replied and left. He had to find Sully before the police did. He had to satisfy for himself that Sully had in fact done this, and he worried about what he might have to do if he had. Killing an old friend who had crossed that moral line he believed fervently in was, as always, a painful decision. In the past year, he'd faced but ultimately given Kiem Sun another chance. For Richie, he'd allowed Felicia Martins her life. Poor, simple-minded Ursa was safely housed once more on holy ground despite killing a mortal; Duncan had arranged that. And according to the last note he'd had from Greg Powers, his former student was once more on the right road.

But he'd had to kill Michael Moore… a dear friend… and it had cost him deeply. There were times that he awoke in a cold sweat, hearing Michael plead… not for life… not for another chance… but for death. And then Duncan would hear within his head one more time… the laughter of Quentin Barnes… Michael's other personality. He shivered even now. Annie Devlin had also fallen to him. Her anger, passion, and hate seemed to bubble within him sometimes.

Then there were those enemies who had escaped… that he'd have to face again: Xavier St. Cloud and Anthony Galen. They were still out there and… like, as not they were planning revenge. At moments like this, Duncan feared for Tessa. She was his Achilles heel… the way to destroy him. He knew that now. Yet he would not… could not… leave her. Each time he saw her it seemed to be a miracle. She made him happier than he had ever been.

By this time he'd reached his car and driven off… to the sports bar. The staff should be arriving for the lunch crowd. Maybe Sully had gone there. Duncan had a feeling that Sully would find a way to see Iris one more time before vanishing. Immortals were good at that… vanishing for a time. But just as Tessa was his Achilles heel… Iris was likely Sully's.

Duncan focused on the traffic, nervously tapping the steering wheel whenever he hit a red light or a busy street. He was worried about what Sully would do if Iris rejected him.

Iris huddled in her thin winter coat as she walked the half block from the bus stop to the sports bar. To Sully, watching her from the alley alongside the bar, she seemed both goddess and little lost waif. He watched as one ungloved hand, red from the cold, reached up to brush her blown blonde hair out of her eyes. As soon as she put hand back in her coat pocket, the hair blew again. Beautiful, innocent, and sweet… this was Iris… and suddenly it was all so easy.

"Iris!" he called out just before she reached the door. When she glanced at him, she paused. He motioned for her to come here and then backed into the alley.

"Sully?" she said as she reached him. "What's this about? Why are you hiding in the shadows?"

He reached out and grasped her arm to pull her into the alley with him. He pressed an envelope into her hand. "You may hear some things later today. I just want you to know… they've got it all wrong."

"What things? Sully you're scaring me." She turned the envelope over in her hand.

"I'll explain everything later. Inside there's an address. Meet me there when you get off work. And Iris… don't tell anyone you've seen me."

"Why not? Sully this doesn't make any sense."

"Please Iris. It's important."

She agreed and he rubbed both of his rough hands over her cold one. "I just want you to know… you're very important to me. I may have to leave here… and I want to have time to explain things." He met her questioning gaze and smiled. For the first time since meeting her, the words had not become garbled, and he smiled at her.

"All right," she replied. She raised her other hand and laid it alongside his cheek. "You are really the sweetest man I've ever met."

Sully sighed at her touch, tears springing to his eyes. "Promise me you'll come."

Iris nodded. "I promise."

Sully reluctantly turned away to hurry down the alley and out of sight. Behind him, Iris ripped open the envelope and read the note inside. She smiled, touching her fingers to the old-fashioned writing with a small gasp. Who would have thought that an old fighter would have such penmanship. He really was a man of contradictions sometimes. She rammed the envelope into her coat picket and hurried into the bar. She had work to do.

During the lunchtime rush, she overheard some of the guys mention that some boxer was found shot in his hotel room. She heard no names, and it wasn't until Duncan MacLeod showed up that she learned that George Belcher had been shot. Her eyes widened. She looked away from him.

"Have you seen Sully? I have to tell him."

Surely it would be all right to tell Mr. MacLeod. After all… he was Sully's friend and partner. But Iris trusted Sully. She didn't want to betray that trust. "I'm sorry… I haven't seen him."

MacLeod thanked her, and left. Evidently he'd look elsewhere for Sully. She headed to the bar to pick up a drink order for table five. Her brother Rodney was there.

"I need some money, Iris."

"You need to get a job Rodney."

"C'mon. They're gonna let me into the game. All I need is some cash to flash."

"I don't have any and even if I did… you wouldn't get any. Eat on the house… but no drinks and no gambling." She grabbed the tray and walked off in a huff.

Watching his sister go, Rodney chuckled. _Well… maybe there's some in her purse._ He slipped off the barstool and sauntered casually into the employees' area. Looking around to be certain no one was taking a break, he entered the break room and approached her locker. Expertly he dialed the lock and opened it to begin his search.

He found less than ten dollars in her purse and stuffed that into his pocket. Then he went through her coat. Pulling out the envelope, he looked inside, figuring she might have some cash stashed there. She didn't… but he read the note with interest and then replaced it. He wondered how this knowledge might earn him some real money.

After checking all the places he knew that Sully might hang out, Duncan returned to the _dojo_, taking note of the police car parked in the street outside.

"Hey man what's up?" Charlie asked as he took a short break from one of his students. "What the heck do the police want?"

"What did they say they wanted?" Duncan asked.

"They were looking for Sully… didn't say why," his manager said. "Is Sully in some kind of trouble? I mean he has a temper… but…" Charlie's voice faded away as Duncan held up a hand.

"George Belcher was killed last night. I think they just want to inform Sully and find out if he knows who did it."

"George? Aw man that is really bad news. That guy had some real talent. Sully'll be crushed."

Duncan put his hands on his hips and looked around. "He hasn't been in?"

"Naw," Charlie replied.

"If he shows up, call me."

"Where' are you going, MacLeod?"

"To find Sully!" He'd backtrack to some of the places he'd been earlier and maybe swing by the sports bar again to see if Iris had heard anything.

At the sports bar, darkness was already starting to fall. In January, it was still full black by 6:00. The neon lights outside the bar bid welcome and inside, there was a boisterous Tuesday night crowd anxious to watch College hoops. Patrons were wearing their college colors and Duncan could see money changing hands as the betting had begun. He looked for Iris.

"She left early," Rodney told him when he heard Duncan asking about her.

"Where is she?"

Rodney turned away.

"Rodney please," Duncan asked. "Is she with Sully?"

"What if she is?"

"Where? Do you know where?" Finally a glimmer of hope sounded in Duncan's voice.

"Why do you care?"

"Rodney, I have to find Sully."

Rodney laughed and shrugged. "Well maybe… for the right price I might know something."

Despite the shakedown, Duncan knew he had no time to waste. He pulled out his money clip and peeled off a hundred dollar bill that he dangled in Rodney's face. When Rodney reached for it, Duncan held it out of reach. "Where's Sully?"

Rodney licked his lips as he focused on the bill. "The arena. He wanted her to meet him at the arena."

Duncan nodded and dropped the bill. It floated slowly to the floor. Rodney scrambled off the barstool and down on his knees to retrieve it.

"Take my advice," Duncan said, "And get some help." He pivoted and headed out to his car. The arena was one place he hadn't checked.

Although the massive arena complex was dark, the door was unlocked. Iris, unfamiliar with the layout of the place, wandered in dim hallways lit only by exit signs. Finally finding entry to the arena itself, she opened the heavy door.

A spotlight illuminated the square boxing ring set up in the center of the floor far below. In the ring, on a stool sat Sully, looking despondent.

"Sully?" she called, relieved when he looked up at her and smiled. "Iris! You came!"

She ran to meet him, this gentle man who had turned her world upside down. He held the ropes apart for her to climb into the ring and then they stood there… only a few feet from each other… gazing into one another's eyes.

"I'm so glad you came."

"Is this about George? I heard he'd been killed. Sully the police are looking for you."

"I know. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to make it big… he was a contender, Iris… a contender."

Iris touched his face sadly. "You must be devastated."

Sully nodded. Why was it so easy to talk to her now that it was too late for anything? "I just wanted you to know that I… I care about you."

Iris laughed lightly, an angel's laugh. "Oh Sully. You are the most confusing man I've ever known… and the sweetest. You never pinched, you never grabbed, and you've always treated me as if I were a lady. Why did it take you so long to say those words?"

Sully breathed surprisingly easy and smiled. "You _are_ a lady Iris… the prettiest sweetest, most wonderful lady I've ever known in my entire life. How else should I have treated you?"

"You make me want to be a lady, Sully." She drew closer and brushed her lips against his. Time stood still as that kiss lingered for both of them. Finally Sully put his arms around her. "I have to leave here, Iris. Come with me."

"What about Rodney?"

"Rodney's a big boy… he can take care of himself. There comes a time Iris… when we have to let go of those we care for and let them face the mistakes of their own lives. Trust me on this."

"But I promised Momma to look after him."

"For how long? Take this chance Iris and come with me. I promise you'll never regret it."

Iris stared into his eyes and finally nodded as tears formed. "I trust you Sully. I always have."

It was at this moment that Sully felt an immortal approach. He closed his eyes. "I want you to go pack," he finally said. "Hurry now. I'll come for you."

"But…"

"No buts," he gave her a sad smile as he urged her to leave. He held the ropes once more and helped her climb down. She kept looking back at him with her sweet, sad face. When she passed MacLeod she said something to him that Sully didn't quite catch. But Mac smiled at her and Sully did catch the reply, "We just have to talk."

Sully pulled back to the center of the ring. MacLeod entered and stared at him quietly… both men waiting for Iris to leave. When the door slammed, MacLeod paced closer to Sully. "Why'd you do it Sully? Why'd you kill George?"

"He crossed me. He grabbed and flirted with Iris after promising me he wouldn't. He also was meeting with people last night… suits… he was looking for a way out of his contract."

"He was meeting with the sports reporter I'd contacted about an interview!" Duncan put his hands on his hips and stared into the darkness. "You always go off half-cocked."

"He still betrayed me, Mac. He had to pay."

"That's it… isn't it. Someone crosses you and you kill him. Did you kill Coleman too? In fact, that fight promoter back in San Francisco last century… he died after paying you what he owed you. Did you kill him too?"

"Coleman and that other man were bad men Mac. They were bad men."

"Why? Because they cheated you?"

"That's only part of it. They mistreated employees; they robbed from the poor to line their own pockets. They were criminals!"

"They were mortal and they should have faced mortal justice! Besides… George wasn't a criminal."

"George wasn't the innocent you pretend he was."

"Maybe not! But Sully, you shouldn't have killed him."

"It was MY business. Not yours!"

"You're wrong. It became my business the moment you made me a partner."

Sully's face paled. He didn't want this… but MacLeod was betraying their friendship. He wasn't trusting him. "Fine. I'm leaving and taking Iris. She's going with me."

"And what happens the first time you and Iris have a disagreement, Sully? Will she pay the same way?"

"I would never hurt her!"

"What if she laughs at another man's joke at a party? What if she smiles at another man in friendship?"

"She wouldn't do that! She loves me!"

"Has she said so?" Duncan waited while Sully pondered that for a moment.

"Well we didn't use that word… but I know she does!" Sully was perspiring heavily and shaking his finger at Mac while the red tinge to his vision slowly deepened to black.

"I can't let you take her and go."

"Then it comes to this," Sully pulled his sword from behind him and shrugged of his jacket. MacLeod did the same as the two old friends squared off against one another.

"I didn't want this to happen," Sully was saying.

"Neither did I," Duncan replied sadly.

Sully stood perfectly still while he gained control of himself and let his rage become cold and deadly. "It's what we do." Then he lunged.

"They just started," Robby Martinez said, glancing up as Joe Dawson quietly entered the announcer's booth from where they would watch the fight.

"Yeah?" Joe said sadly and settled into a chair next to Martinez. "I've been afraid it would come to this ever since Sullivan killed Coleman."

"Yeah. He's a tough little Mick. He sees things only in terms of black and white. To Sully, you're either a friend or an enemy. He's never been able to see the lines of gray."

"MacLeod's that way too. But he seems to see it in regards to immortals who hurt mortals."

"Must be nice to see the world in black or white. Everything is so simple… so clear-cut."

"It could also be kinda boring," Joe chuckled and then sobered as the quick-moving Sullivan got in a good clean hit on MacLeod. The bigger man twisted out of it, backed up, and then attacked again using his size, strength and power against Sully's swiftness.

"I'd like to have seen those two duke it out with their fists. Sullivan might have had a chance," Martinez said.

"Maybe… as it is… this one is likely a foregone conclusion," Joe replied.

At that moment, Sullivan lost his footing and landed on his knees. He looked up in surprise as Duncan's blade descended. It was all over then except for the quickening.

Martinez rose. "I'll file my final report in the morning. Coming?"

"Naw. I'll wait to see if he disposes up the body. He does that for friends usually. If not, I'll call for a clean-up squad and deal with it quietly. The last thing we need is another headless corpse in the area… especially one the police know was an acquaintance of MacLeod."

"See you around Dawson."

"Yeah," Joe said and then he was alone in the darkness, watching Duncan MacLeod on his knees sobbing at the loss of another friend.

"I don't understand?" Iris was saying as she flipped through the money.

"Sully had to leave Iris, but he wanted you taken care of. Use the money to get out of the life you're living. Get a better job, go to school… whatever you want." Duncan perched on the edge of his desk in the antique store. In the showroom he heard Tessa on the phone chatting to her designer friend.

"But he wanted me to go with him," Iris said, fighting back the tears.

"I told him that wasn't wise, Iris. Sully is in big trouble right now. There was no reason to drag you into it." Duncan reached out to clasp her arm and give her an encouraging smile.

"I loved him. Does that sound strange? He wasn't tall and good-looking. He wasn't witty and smart. But he was the sweetest, gentlest man I ever met."

Duncan's gaze became unfocused and for a moment he was in another time and another place, joking with Sully, teasing Sully about his shyness with women, drinking with Sully. Then the reality of the duel returned to him. He nodded soberly. "Sully said you were something special."

Iris nodded. "That's what he told me too. Am I? Am I something special? Or was it only a dream?"

Duncan met her questioning gaze with a smile. "We are all someone special. We just need to realize that."

Minutes later, after goodbyes and promises to keep in touch, he showed Iris out of the store and turned to Tessa. "So… what did Monica want now?"

"Well… she wants to pay me back for all the help I've been in restoring and decorating the Marsden House. She's suggested a weekend at a spa… just Monica and me. We're going to get decadently attended to."

"Decadently?"

"Objections?"

"Well, you are an emancipated modern woman," Duncan said as he slipped his arms about her and pulled her close.

"And don't you forget it," Tessa replied as she put her arms about his neck and inclined her head for a kiss.

Duncan was about to oblige when the shop door opened, the bell jangling jarringly.

"Oh hi you two," Angie was saying. "Am I on time?"

Tessa wrinkled her brow. "On time for what?"

Duncan looked stunned for a moment. "I forgot to tell you."

"Tell me what?" Tessa wanted to know.

"I hired Angie to help us out here a few days a week."


	43. The Color of Authority, part 1

**43  
****_The Color of Authority_**

Alarm clocks are both friend and foe. They keep us on time… and they wake us up even when we want to sleep. Richie threw out an arm to slam it onto the alarm at his bedside and shut it off. For a moment he blinked in confusion as dull gray light filtered into the loft. He yawned with the desire to close his eyes and sleep, wondering just why he'd set that alarm. _Class you idiot!_ he recalled and groaned as he rolled over, rubbed his face and then got up. On the cold floor, his bare feet hopped up and down, protesting the torture. _Maybe I should see about a rug_, he thought. He picked up a pipe to hit the radiator, hoping that it would soon kick on again. _Blasted plumbing!_ he smirked. As usual, the radiator was the coldest thing in the room. He shivered at the thought of a shower and prayed that the water at least would be hot.

It was, and by that time, the heat had indeed kicked in. The apartment was still cold… but it was warming up. He dressed quickly and made what passed for breakfast: coffee and toast. Soon, he was out the door and off on his bike. _Next term… no morning classes_, he promised himself. Registering so late had meant that he hadn't had the pick of classes and his schedule sucked big time. But this was for Tessa. She believed in him, and he didn't want to disappoint her. Besides, so far, the classes were interesting and were challenging him in a way that high school never had. The other students were all ages at the community college and their varying ages and backgrounds led to some interesting discussions in class. Despite his fears that he wouldn't fit in, Richie found that he did.

He weaved through traffic on his way to the campus, feeling the ice cold of the January morning cut through him like a knife. _Maybe a car_, he mused. But to buy anything, he needed money. The MacLeods had been great to him. He had a place to live, a job… albeit not a well-paying job… and this chance at furthering his education. Maybe life wasn't perfect… but it was far better than what he could have imagined for himself a little over a year and a half ago when he broke into their antique store. Life now had possibilities.

Arriving on campus, he locked his bike, hefted the backpack onto one shoulder and raced for **_Pawling Hall_**. He was running late. And while college didn't make as big a thing about students being late as high school did, he still felt really bad when he arrived after the bells had rung. He barely made it. He was just slipping into a desk chair when the sounds of the buzzer serving as the bell rang throughout the building. He pulled out his notebook and prepared to pay attention to another thrilling morning of **Art Appreciation 110. **He'd taken this one for Tessa, so he could more easily discuss her work with clients or with some of the sexy babes who attended her shows. Besides, he'd figured if the course got too hard, he could hang out with her and discuss whatever he didn't understand.

The professor, a fussy little man complete with tweed jacket with elbow patches, a pipe filled with aromatic tobacco, and carrying a heavy briefcase sauntered in moments later. Dr. Wellingford's tightly curled and yet bushy salt-and-pepper hair and his white sneakers gave him a slight "flower child" look despite the accoutrements of academia. He opened the brief case, re-lit his pipe and began a non-stop forty-minute lecture during which he occasionally pulled examples of Renaissance art for them to look at from his case and passed them around. Richie thought he'd get writer's cramp. Then came a fast and furious ten minutes of discussion. As always, the discussion was cut short by the bell. Richie wondered why he didn't try to cover less material and give more time for discussion. As he left, he could still hear some of the others talking about the art and the painters. Maybe that was why. He covered the basics and let the students figure out the reset on their own.

Outside, he pulled on his leather gloves and zipped up his jacket. It really was too cold to be out on his bike today. But his next class wasn't for two hours. He could go to the campus grill and hang out, go to the library to study, or go to the _dojo_ and let Charlie mop the floor with him. He must have a martyr complex as he decided to return to the _dojo_. He hunkered down on the bike as he sped through traffic. He stopped at a red light and then turned right on it, nearly cutting off a pedestrian who was jaywalking.

He braked to a sudden stop with a squeal of tires as she pretty nearly ran over the top of him. A wispy and thin blonde… nice-looking… but with a fearful look in her eyes as she glanced over her shoulder. "I'm sorry. Sorry."

She sounded like some of the girls he'd known in high school who had low self-esteem… who were misused by the men in their mothers' lives, always apologizing for anything that happened.

"Hey, I'm the one that almost hit you," Richie said with a smile, hidden behind his helmet. Still, a smile was a smile. He angled the bike out of the way of traffic. She kept looking behind her fearfully. "You in trouble? Can I help?" Richie wanted to know.

"I don't know. There's this man who's following me. I need to get away from him."

"Hop on," Richie told her. She climbed on behind him, holding onto him tightly as he hit the gas. From the corner of one eye, he thought he saw a big man with a goatee coming in their direction. He drove off, wondering where to take her. He decided on the antique store. After all, Mac was the Boy Scout and defender of young women. Besides, he had classes later. With a chuckle, Richie didn't believe that he was putting class before spending time with a girl. Maybe he really was growing up some.

Twenty minutes later Richie pulled into the parking space behind the antique store and taking the young woman's arm, led her into the store. "I know this really nice couple who own this place and they can help you get away from this guy," he was saying. As they entered the front door, Richie heard laughter in Mac's office. Female and familiar, he paused nervously, the blonde still on his arm. "Angie?" he uttered with surprise when she peaked around the door of Mac's office to see who'd entered. She smirked at him as the blonde on his arm registered with her. "Uh… Angie this is…?" Richie looked at the blonde. He had no idea what her name was. It hadn't seemed as important as helping her get away from that guy.

The girl smiled nervously… her eyes darting around the room. They widened and she gasped slightly when Mac appeared in the doorway beside Angie. Richie could feel her shudder slightly as if she feared him.

"It's okay… he's one of the good guys," Richie insisted. "He can help."

The young woman nodded hesitantly. "I don't want to be any trouble." She beamed at Richie. "Thank you for rescuing me… but now I probably should go. I don't want to cause any trouble for anyone."

Mac strode forward carefully; making certain that his action didn't frighten her. He smiled and extended a hand to say gently, "I'm Duncan MacLeod."

Mentally Richie took notes. He hoped someday to be able to pull off an introduction so effortlessly.

"Laura Daniels," she replied, giving him her hand. To Richie, she still seemed like a shy and frightened animal ready to bolt. Even saying her name made her fearful as if they would know by it that she was serial killer or something. Richie banished that thought. No, this was a mistreated young woman who had never had a decent break in her life. She was running from her past… she was running from who she was… not anything she'd done.

"Laura… that's a nice name," he said lamely and then winced as Angie snorted and turned to vanish into a back area of the store. _What was she doing here anyway?_ Richie wanted to talk to her, but he still had to explain to Mac. "I nearly ran her down in the street Mac. She was running from some guy."

Mac peered into Laura's face quizzically… Richie knew his boss had a thousand questions. But he didn't ask them. He seemed to decide that making the young woman feel welcome and safe was more important. "You're safe here Laura. I don't let men in here who mistreat women."

Laura's smile broke through her fears. Richie grinned. "See… I told you he would help."

Mac shot him a glance and then motioned Laura to a nearby chair. "Have a seat and catch your breath. If you were on the back of Richie's bike, you're likely half frozen."

Laura rubbed her arms. "Yes… the bike ride was cold."

"I have some coffee on in the office. Would you like some?" Mac continued.

"Please," Laura replied, her smile once more shy and frightened. Mac nodded to Richie to get it. He backed away from Laura, unzipping his leather jacket in the warmth of the store. The coffee smelled great and he poured two cups: one for him, and one for Laura. He hesitated over the sugar and creamer, finally hooking his fingers around a packet of each as he carefully carried the two Styrofoam cups back into the store.

"… who he was," Laura was saying. She bit her lip. Mac must have been asking about the man. She reached for the cup and took the packets, opening and pouring the sugar in. She laid the cream to one side. "Thank you," she murmured as she began to sip it.

"Then calling the police should be the first step," Mac commented and turned to lift the phone from its cradle."

The response from Laura was as sudden as it was surprising. "No!" she said, her hand gripping the cup so tightly that the foam split and hot coffee poured over her fingers. She yelped and dropped the cup so that the coffee spilled in her lap and dripped onto the Persian carpet at her feet. "Oh," she said startled and fell to her knees, more concerned about the coffee on the rug than the coffee, which now had wet her clothes and likely burned her. She dabbed the sleeve of her jacket on the floor as she apologized again and again.

Mac folded his arms across his chest and met Richie's eyes even as Richie bent to pull Laura back up. His gaze said it all. This girl is running from something more than just an abusive relationship. Still… Richie felt the need to help her. He wondered why it was that Mac was so suspicious of the girl. Maybe it was that whole "been there seen that" attitude of the older and wiser man always telling him and others what to do and how to do it.

Richie ignored him, concentrating on Laura and her tearful apologies. "Hey… it's just a rug. It'll shampoo. Are you burned? Man that coffee was scalding hot!"

Laura met his gaze gratefully, the tears streaming down her face. She whimpered as if only now realizing that she was burned.

Richie glanced at his boss. "Mac… can Tessa or Angie help her. I think she needs to get out of these wet clothes and let someone see how badly she's burned." Inwardly he thought, _Angie? Why IS she here?_ And hoped that Mac would call Tessa.

No such luck. "Tessa's at a meeting about a commission. He turned and raised his voice to call out. "Angie? I think we need your help."

Angie, pencil in her mouth and a pad of paper in her hands, popped back in, looked at the scene curiously and then nodded. "Right… I take it the occasional nursing duties are part of the job." She placed both pencil and pad down. "Come on Miss… Whoever… I'll help you get out of those wet things." She glanced at Mac. "Uh… something old of Tessa's?"

"In the closet next to her studio are some old clothes she uses when she's sculpting. Get something there."

Angie pulled a reluctant Laura away with her to the bathroom. Mac looked blandly at Richie.

Richie sighed. He'd hoped that Mac would deal with Laura and let him talk to Angie. Why did he feel like he'd just made a major mistake? He swallowed and set his shoulders. "Honest Mac… it's like I said. She was running from some guy and I nearly ran her down. I just thought she needed some help."

"Richie… she's running from the law. As soon as I mentioned the police she panicked."

"Well maybe she will explain. Maybe it's all a misunderstanding."

"Richie if she's innocent… she'd be eager to tell her story. No… she's done something and that's what she's running from. Now… aren't you supposed to be in class?"

Richie panicked a moment and then looked at his watch. "Nah… class isn't for about an hour. I've still got about thirty minutes to kill before I need to leave."

Mac leaned forward. "Maybe you should go ahead and leave now. I'll take care of our Miss Daniels."

Richie swallowed nervously. That had been his plan when he came in. Why was he suddenly reluctant to leave? He glanced at the doorway to the MacLeod apartment. "Why is Angie here?"

"I hired her to help out here in the store so Tessa and I have a little more freedom and don't change the subject. Let me handle this." He looked up and about suddenly.

Richie knew that look. Mac only did that when another immortal was nearby. They moved to stand by the front window, peering through the blinds.

On the far side of the street was a man looking thoughtfully in their direction.

"Oh geez Mac… that's the man she was running from. He's one of you guys… isn't he?"

Mac nodded thoughtfully. "Mako."

"He's evil right? You're gonna have to fight him."

Mac met Richie's gaze sternly. "Not exactly. Mako isn't a friend… he's a lawman… a bounty hunter. I'd say your Miss Daniels is in a heap of trouble and I doubt we can do anything about it."

Richie shook his head fervently. Mac had to be wrong. He just had to be wrong! Surely there was no way he'd just hand this girl over to this Mako character! Mac was a champion for the underdog! Richie knew this to be true based on all they'd been through in the last year and a half. "Mac… you can't turn her over to him… you just can't."

Mac stared for a long moment at Richie and then looked up as Mako purposely crossed the street towards the antique store.


	44. The Color of Authority, part 2

**44  
_The Color of Authority, part 2 _**

Richie shifted back and forth on his feet as the immortal bounty hunter, Mako, entered the antique store. The man positively bristled with authority and disdain. His deep voice drawled as if he were some U.S. Marshal from Texas. "MacLeod."

"Mako," Mac replied with a curt nod. Whatever lay between them, it wasn't friendship. Richie wasn't even certain it was respect.

"Still harboring fugitives?" Mako taunted with a smirk.

Mac looked up and around… his mouth working as if it fought with himself about retorting something. Richie dearly wanted to know what Mac knew. "What's she done?"

Richie stared openmouthed at this Mako creep? What the hell was he doing?

"She murdered her husband," Mako replied flatly. "I'm just here to bring her in MacLeod. This doesn't have to get personal."

Mac's eyes glittered and he stared at Mako. His lip curled slightly. "You have the wrong idea about the law Mako. You always did."

"I don't write the law, MacLeod. I only enforce it. It's my job to arrest Mrs. Daniels and return her for trial. What happens there is not my business. It was the same with your friend Mr. Ramsey. If he hadn't tried to …" he hesitated and glanced at Richie, "force the issue… he needn't have died. I don't take pleasure from killing people."

"Tim Ramsey made a mistake!" Duncan insisted. "All you had to do was wound him. You didn't have to shoot to kill!"

Mako clasped his hands before him and shrugged. "Again… not my responsibility. He shot first. I merely shot back. Are you the kind of man who holds long grudges? I had never heard that about you. I'd hear that you were a fair man."

Mac leaned closer. "I am a fair man. It's you I don't find fair. You say you uphold the law… but did you ever think there was more to it than just black and white… yes and no… guilty or not guilty?"

"I fail to see your concern for someone you just met. I have every legal right to escort her from the premises now."

Mac moved to stand before him in a glaring and posturing contest. "I'd like to see you try."

Mako nodded. "I can get the paperwork."

"Fine… you do that. Before I let you just take her, I want to be certain she'll be treated with respect and has legal representation."

Mako nodded. "That's fine. I'll give you a couple of hours to arrange things while I get the paperwork. But if she bolts MacLeod… I'll see that to mean she has no interest in your offer. She'll go back with me… and can get a lawyer there." He nodded curtly, turned and was gone.

Mac stepped closer to the door, breathing harshly as if he were ready to explode.

Richie touched his arm lightly. "You're not gonna just turn her over to him are you Mac? I mean you saw her. Whatever happened… it wasn't murder."

Mac let out a deep breath and his shadows sagged after a moment. Richie still thought he looked tense. _Man it must be something to come up against another immortal… to have to think that any disagreement might mean a fight to the death_. Richie wondered what he'd do if that ever happened to him. He recalled how last fall he and Greg Powers had talked about what he'd do and how he'd handle things if he were an immortal. Those talks had continued to rattle around in Richie's brain now and again.

"After all Mac… he could be lying."

Mac shook his head, "He's not lying. Mako is follower of the letter of the law. He always has been."

"What happened before?"

Mac moved away from the door and then stopped to explain. "He came to arrest a friend of mine who'd committed a youthful indiscretion where a man had been killed. Tim had a young and very pregnant wife he didn't feel he could leave. He chose to meet Mako in a gunfight. He died."

"The son of a bitch just killed him? Mac you can't let him take Laura!"

Mac rounded on his, his voice raised in anger. "Richie have you learned nothing? You can't get involved. If you come up against Mako… he'll kill you. He'll use the color of authority to make it legal and there would be nothing I could do. You do not ever face down an immortal. Remember what I told you in Paris last year?"

Richie nodded. "Shoot him and then shoot him again and again and then run like hell."

"And know they will still come after you. You do not get involved. You brought her to me. You go to class."

"I can't just leave her!"

"Yes… you can. It's what you planned to do. I'll talk to her. I'll make some calls. You… go to class."

Richie was torn. This was his original plan. It would likely be best for his relationship with Angie if he left and let Mac deal with Laura. But he felt responsible. What was it about Mac sometimes that he didn't seem to have compassion for people? He stepped back… still not knowing if he should leave or stay. "You know Mac… you're a real SOB sometimes. I do what you tell me to do. I find someone in trouble and I bring them to you. And what do you want to do? As soon as some old friend of yours shows up and tells you she's trouble… you're ready to throw her out! Why do I even trust you anymore?"

"This old _friend_ isn't lying Richie. And…" Mac paused and then quietly continued, "I'm not throwing her out. I'm going to ask her about her side of this… and then… depending on how honest she is with me… I'm going to find her a lawyer. What happens to her depends on the court system. We don't butt heads against the law… we use the law to do what is right and make certain that justice is served."

"But she needs our help Mac. You saw her. She's been mistreated or something. He was likely beating her. Isn't that a defense?"

Mac nodded. "That's why I'll get her a good lawyer if she tells me the truth. Face it Richie… she will have to go back no matter what."

Richie felt tears burn in his eyes and sniffed loudly. He wasn't some kid anymore who had to be quiet and say nothing when he saw people mistreated. Mac had given him that. But why was he suddenly turning on him. Anyone could tell that Laura needed help.

Mac clasped his arm. "Please Richie. Let me handle this. I'm not a cold-hearted bastard who will turn her over and look away. I'll make certain this is done right. Now say goodbye to her and go to class."

Richie was about to argue again when a clean and dry Laura, accompanied by Angie returned to the showroom of the store. They were chatting as if they were old friends. Seeing Richie and Mac in conversation… Laura suddenly looked apprehensive again. "What's wrong?"

Richie looked at Mac's pleading gaze and nodded. "Nothing. Hey Laura, I've got to get to class. Listen… Mac here will help you if you tell him what's going on. Maybe I'll see you after class." He gave her his bravest smile.

Laura stared at him; her lower lip quivered. "You're leaving me?"

"I got this test," he lied. "Mac and his wife Tessa will be certain to take care of you and like I said… I'll be back after class is over. I'll be back in two hours," he said looking at Duncan. He wanted him to protect Laura and keep her from leaving or being dragged off in cuffs by Mako before then. Mac nodded. He understood.

"And Angie… great you're working here. We'll talk later… okay?" He felt like a first-class heel.

Angie gave him one of her patented skeptic grins and flipped him a bird. He wasn't fooling her one bit. Then she grinned, grabbed his shoulders and kissed him swiftly, darting her tongue between his lips and teasing him. Then she released him before he could even begin to respond. "See ya later!" she waved with a wider grin and pivoted on one heel to return to the backroom.

Richie stared after her with an almost hanged-dog look and sighed. He heard Duncan chuckle and glanced around. Laura was looking at him with a hurt expression as if she'd just figured out that Richie wasn't available. And he wasn't… well, not really. But he could have been. He blushed. Then he shrugged and reluctantly headed for the door. Class was the last place he wanted to be and he feared that he'd never be able to concentrate now. The promise of Angie's kiss had aroused him and he was walking stiffly. Idly he wondered if Mac ever had this problem or if four hundred years took care of raging hormones.

As he opened the door, he heard Mac say, "We'll see you later Rich." Richie nodded as he passed through the door and closed it behind him. The chill air outside assaulted him and calmed him much like an icy shower. He shivered at the thought of another one and headed for his bike. Mac was right. He needed to go now and not be further involved. A block up the street, he was unaware of Mako observing him carefully while sitting in his car.

"There you are boy. Another of MacLeod's little projects. He's sent you off to keep you out of trouble. Better listen to him. This girl is not worth dying over… not worth losing your head over." He reached down for the paperwork he'd had in the car all along and flipped through it. MacLeod didn't even know what this girl had done. He paused and pulled out the crime scene photos that showed the savage butchery performed on the body of Earl Daniels. Mako studied it carefully, seeing for the first time, perhaps, that it wasn't planned but was the result of unbridled passion. Maybe the girl's story about being mistreated and beaten was true… this certainly seemed to corroborate that. But the law was the law. His job was to bring her in. He wasn't supposed to interpret the law. He wasn't supposed to make judgments. He was just supposed to arrest her and take her in for trial. He flipped to her arrest photo and studied the bruises on her face. Then he pulled another file out and studied old hospital records that he'd managed to acquire despite their being sealed. In this were photos of a various beatings over the two years of Laura and Earl's marriage. They showed an increasing degree of savagery. The girl definitely had a case for beaten spouse syndrome.

Mako closed the file and sat back with his eyes closed… again reminding himself that he was not here to judge her guilt or innocence. He was a U.S. Marshal not some privately hired bounty hunter. He was here to arrest her because she'd jumped bail.

For a moment he stood in the dusty street of a small western town and reminded the young man facing him that it didn't have to be this way. Then the young man shot and Mako had killed him. _Was I wrong then?_ He shook himself. His job was to bring Tim Ramsey in. It had been the boy's choice to resist. Make looked down at his fists and at the files now scrunched up within them. Obviously MacLeod's involvement with this girl was creating doubt in his mind about what he should be doing. But the law was the law. Those who break the law must be judged by a jury of their peers… twelve men… and women… good and true. Thus it had been eight hundred years ago when he'd been a sheriff in England and thus it was now. Without the law, mankind would devolve into chaos.

Mako smoothed the folders and paperwork back out, and then gathered it all up with the arrest warrant. Time to face MacLeod. Laura Daniels needed to go back… and Mako would take her.

-----

"Tell me the truth or I can't help you Laura," Duncan said to the young woman. He was leaning against the desk and trying to appear non-threatening toward her. He tried to smile and use a soft voice as a parent or teacher would.

"What do you mean?"

"A U.S. Marshal was here while you were in the back. He's gone to get his arrest warrant for you. He said you killed your husband."

Laura's eyes widened and she looked ready to bolt. Then she turned on the waterworks. "You don't understand. He beat me! He said he loved me but he beat me. He'd sleep with other women and then come home and rape me. But 'cause his daddy was so rich and powerful, no one believed me. He started again one night. I grabbed a knife and I don't know what happened. It's not my fault! It's Earl's daddy's fault! He wouldn't let anyone believe me. He kept hiding what Earl was doing to me! He hated me 'cause he didn't think I was good enough to be Earl's wife. But I loved Earl. And he loved me! It was his daddy's fault!"

Laura's voice rose in pitch and the desperation of her tone was palpable. Duncan nodded. "Then what you need is a good lawyer."

"A good lawyer won't help me. Earl's daddy has money. He'll just pay him off like he did the last one… that public defender."

Duncan sighed. This was not going to be easy. "Not if the lawyer is a friend of mine. Let me make some calls. I can get you one that won't bow to pressure or money. But Laura… you'll have to go back to jail with the marshal when he arrives.

"He's no marshal! He's just somebody hired by Earl's daddy to snatch me and take me back. He'll kill me or rape me along the way. You can't trust him! He lies!"

"Who's lying now Laura," Duncan said sadly and then looked up as he felt Mako's approach. He then heard the bell over the front door tinkle. "Wait here," he instructed her and rose to return to the storefront main room.

Mako was examining a display of swords on the wall. "Very nice MacLeod. I take it they're souvenirs?"

"I don't keep souvenirs," Duncan said in a clipped voice.

Mako turned to regard him without emotion. "No… I don't think you would. It's not your style." He pulled the arrest warrant free and handed it to Duncan. Then he tapped the files still in his hands. "I looked over the reports. She likely could make a case for spousal abuse. But MacLeod… that's not my call."

Duncan looked up from the warrant and nodded. "No… it's a jury's call. Let me call a friend of mine and get him hired to represent her. That way, he can fight for a change of venue before she goes back. Do you have your badge?"

Mako eyed him strangely and pulled it out. "Why?"

"She thinks you're a private bounty hunter on her father-in-law's payroll. If you show her your badge, maybe she'll go quietly."

"I hope you're right. I don't like taking them in dead. I never did. I never tried to kill any of them."

"But if they resisted, you pulled no punches," Duncan replied, the pain still in his voice. "Tim didn't have to die."

Mako took in a sharp breath, wrinkled his nose slightly as he exhaled. "Shoot to wound? Too often the wounded are even more dangerous."

"They're human beings Mako. They feel. They have fears and desires and wants just like us." He glanced around and then whispered to Mako, making certain his voice would not carry. "They have only one life. It's not for us to take it from them. No matter what the law says. The law is important… but so is justice… and mercy."

Mako smiled. "The quality of mercy is not strained. It dropeth as the gentle rain from heaven."

"**The Merchant of Venice**," offered Duncan with a nod. "He was very wise that Mr. Shakespeare"

"He was indeed," Mako agreed. "Make your call. I'll wait."

"Thanks," Duncan said and returned to his office.

Laura was huddled at the door watching and listening. "Is that him? Is he your friend? Please… I can't go with him!"

Duncan grasped her arms. "Listen to be Laura. When we do something wrong, we have to face it. I'm not saying that killing Earl was wrong in your circumstances, but you have to face down those who say it was. Let me call my friend and then Mr. Mako will take you back to Texas. It's the only way you'll ever be free."

She was already twisting in his hands, seeking to escape. "No! You lie! Richie lied about you helping me. Earl's daddy already paid you off! You just want to beat me and rape me like that other fellow. Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!"

Duncan held her more tightly, fearing that if she ran… she'd end up dead in some alley somewhere… or worse. "Listen to me Laura," he tried to tell her. "You're wrong about me. You're wrong about Marshall Mako. You might be wrong about your chances for justice too."

She lashed at him, clawing his face. Duncan turned her in his arms and held her from the back. He glanced up as Angie had come running. Mako thankfully had stayed put. "It's all right Angie. She's just upset about her imminent arrest."

Angie looked at them both in confusion and then stared at him. With a start he realized that she was seeing his face heal. He made no mention of it. "Call the police Angie. I have a feeling this is going to be complicated."

She nodded and called. Laura meanwhile howled and screamed her denial of what was happening. Duncan felt for her, he truly did. But she needed help and clearly more help than he and a lawyer could give her. Inwardly he wished fervently that Tessa were here. Tessa could always make things right. He held onto Laura despite the kicks, the stomps on his feet and the screams in his ears. It amazed him that Mako remained in the show floor, out of sight.

-----

**English Comp** over, Richie raced for his bike. He was in a hurry to get back to the antique store. He still felt guilty for leaving Laura there. He still felt that he could have done something. If he'd been like Mac he could have protected her and killed this Mako character. Mac would tell him job well done. Tessa would smile at him like the doting older sister he'd always wanted. Even Angie would be… well… Angie. Richie grinned inside his helmet at the promise of her kiss and hit the accelerator.

He parked behind the store and entered through the rear apartment to which he still had a key. There were police and ambulance vehicles out front and he wasn't certain what had happened. Appearing in the archway that led to the main showroom of the store, he took it in, in a glance. Laura was sitting there sobbing and weaving a bit like she was doped up. An EMT was taking her blood pressure while another one was checking her eyes. The Mako creep was standing to one side as what appeared to be plainclothes officers looked at some papers. Mac was on the phone in his office and motioned for Richie to come on in.

"That's right Kirby. She's going to be processed downtown and held at **_County General_** in the psych ward overnight. You will? Good! I'll give them your name so they'll know you are going to represent her here at least. Maybe delay her immediate extradition. Thanks. I owe you." Mac laughed. "Right… a magnum of the fifty-eight my compliments." He placed the phone back on the cradle and sighed at Richie.

"Did that creep hurt her?" Richie sputtered, his hands balled into fists.

"No… Richie… she went hysterical when he arrived and attacked me. Angie called 911 and got the paramedics and the police here."

"Angie?" Richie looked around. "Where is she?"

"Right behind you. Boy Richie when you pick up a damsel in distress… you really don't have a clue. Here boss," she said handing Mac an ice bag.

As Mac mumbled his thanks, Richie noticed the smear of blood on his face and looked at him curiously. "Tell you later," he said and walked out to join the conversation with Mako and the police.

"MacLeod is a real prince," Angie was saying. "That girl went all psycho on him, clawed his face up pretty bad and he's still thinking of her and how best to help her. Makes me glad I said yes to working here."

Richie stared at the listless Laura who was being shown the door now by a policewoman in uniform, followed by the two EMT's. She hadn't even noticed that he was back. She didn't even look like she cared.

"That Mako creep…" he insisted.

"Oh him. He's been very nice. He seemed to understand that she was going ballistic and stayed back out of the way while MacLeod and I tried to calm her down as we waited for the police. She kept screaming that MacLeod wanted to rape her. It took the testimony of all three of us to get things straightened out."

Richie just stared. "Note to self," he muttered. "Don't pick up strange young women."

"Yeah… well you can pick me up at eight," Angie winked at him.

"Eight?" he said dully.

Angie heaved a deep sigh. "For the concert. We have tenth row seats?"

Richie's eyes widened and he grinned broadly. "Right… the concert." Inwardly he groaned. He hated some of these grunge bands that Angie was so into. The thought of the concert hadn't crossed his mind once today.

He watched as the police left and stared at Mako, wondering why the man was staring at him. The marshal crossed the room, approaching him slowly. "I'm sorry that went down so badly boy. I really am. But at least she's in custody, she's alive and she will get some help."

"Yeah and you're all about helping," Richie sneered.

"Richie!" Mac barked.

"Mac… I don't have to like him and I don't have to be grateful to him."

"No… but you will be polite to him while he's in my store." Mac turned and shook hands with Mako. "May justice be served."

"Justice MacLeod? Aye… perhaps it is more about justice than the law sometimes." He smiled slightly as he turned to leave. "See you around… maybe."

"Not if I see you first," Mac chuckled.

"That's not Shakespeare," Mako said thoughtfully as he held the door partway open.

"No… it's from a film called **Gallipoli** about young men from Australia who went off to join the troops in World War I."

"As I recall, most of the Australian and New Zealand volunteers died at Gallipoli," mused Mako.

"They did indeed," Mac nodded. "They wouldn't say good-bye to one another. It was their way of facing the inevitable."

Mako nodded. "I'll keep that in mind." And then he was gone.

Mac clasped Richie's shoulder. "You did a good thing today Richie."

"But I didn't help her. She's in jail… worse the psych ward."

"But she's alive. If Mako had tried to take her on the streets, I'd hate to think what might have happened. She's sick Richie. Now, she'll get some help. I'll see to it."

"She didn't even notice me when she left," Richie added sadly.

"She didn't today, but I'll make you a promise. If her case goes to trial once she's back in Texas, we'll go down and sit in that courtroom to support her. We'll even off testimony for her if asked." Mac smiled warmly at him. "Things could have been much worse."

Maybe… but Richie didn't think so.

-----

Somewhere far away, a ball bounced and there was mirthful laughter.


	45. Bless the Child, part 1

**45**

**_Bless the Child, part 1_**

Charlie rolled in the sleeping bag, his nose wrinkled at the smell of… _grilled fish_? Sitting up, he rubbed his arms in the cold and breathed out a small fog of warm air. Lifting the tent flap he glanced out at the forested glade where they'd spent the night. He sighed and slipped out of the sleeping bag, pulling on his boots and grabbing a jacket. "Who the hell goes camping in February?" Evidently MacLeod did.

It had all sounded so great last week when the subject came up. The _dojo_ would be closed for a week while the final repairs were made on the errant plumbing system. Tessa… Mrs. MacLeod was going to be in New York for the week. Richie would have a long weekend without classes because of President's Day… in other words… they were three men with no duties for three days… no responsibilities. "Let's go camping," MacLeod had grinned.

Charlie, who'd been a Navy Seal, thought about the great times he'd had while in the service and replied, "sure!"

Richie had looked from one man to the other with fear and trepidation. "Camping? Like in a cabin?"

"No Rich," MacLeod had laughed. "In a tent. And we take no food with us. We live off the land."

Charlie should have bowed out right then. He recalled all too clearly how hungry he'd gotten when he'd lived off the land. He still recalled having to eat grubs. But it was winter. There would be no grubs. Surely MacLeod would take emergency supplies.

But he hadn't. When MacLeod had said they would live off the land and hike through the mountains… he'd meant it. Charlie enjoyed the comfort of civilization too much to be truly comfortable in the wild. He could do it… he'd been trained to do it… but he didn't have to like it.

Richie on the other hand, had no clue what he was in for. Charlie had grinned inwardly as Richie's enthusiasm for coming along on this trip had quickly become one long grumble about everything. Things had come to a head last night when Charlie's SUV had stalled out on the mountain road leading to the trails usually hiked. MacLeod had grinned and said he preferred to "hike the less-traveled ones" and they'd carried their gear down into the canyon to camp beside the stream. MacLeod… "Mr. Macho" had put Charlie and Richie in the small tent, but had slept under the stars.

His jacket on, Charlie stepped from the low two-man tent that he'd shared with Richie and took a deep breath of the cold, clean air. It was beautiful here… and all around him were signs that winter was giving way to spring. Small wildflowers had put forth bus on the carpet of the ground beneath the still bare trees. Here and there he could see leaves starting to burst forth and he'd noticed that the last of the snow had melted… at least at this level. Higher up… the mountaintops were still covered. He could hear water run free and fast in the nearby creek. If there'd been bacon and eggs in that skillet… he could have been a happy man.

A loud crash of branches to Charlie's left let him know that Richie was on his way back to the campsite. His arms were laden with branches, which he kept dropping and trying to pick up again.

MacLeod grinned and shook his head. "Thanks Richie! Put them down over there."

"That's enough wood for the weekend," laughed Charlie as he crouched near MacLeod and managed not to grimace at the thought of the fish in the pan.

"Well… yeah!" Richie grinned as he carefully set the armload down and stacked errant branches on top of it. I figured that way we wouldn't have to gather anymore."

MacLeod chuckled. "So you going to carry all that wood with you when we pack up after breakfast and hike along the mountain?"

Richie just stared at him. Then he stared at the pile of firewood. Then he slapped his head. "Right! We're hiking. I take it we won't be hiking back here for dinner?"

MacLeod shook his head while Charlie hid his grin behind his hand. He might not like the way they were working this trip… but he could definitely see the humor in Richie… poor city kid… suddenly having to face all of this. What else did MacLeod have planned for him? Would Richie have to kill a buck with his bare hands, eat the raw liver and have blood smeared across his forehead? The Navy had taught Charlie that life could be rough. It looked like Richie was about to learn that lesson.

"We won't be… and whatever we don't use has to be spread out. We don't leave it in piles. When we leave this spot, it will be as if we were never here."

Richie eyed the campfire. "How do we hide that?"

MacLeod reached up and patted Richie's cheek. "Scatter the embers."

The young man looked at his gloved hands and at the flames licking around the skillet of fish. He seemed doubtful.

"Besides trout," asked Charlie, "what else we eating this morning?"

"I brought a small jar of strawberry jam to flavor it," Duncan was explaining. Now that Charlie looked at the fry pan, he saw that MacLeod had indeed dumped some jam into it to coat the trout. Again his stomach rebelled. Fish was never something he willingly ate… but for breakfast? Charlie shuddered.

"You're kidding. Right Mac?" Richie asked. At MacLeod's amused expression, the young man looked at Charlie. "He's not kidding."

"Evidently not," shrugged Charlie.

"You two don't know what you're missing," MacLeod laughed. "Why the protein in this alone…" His voice drifted off as they heard tires squealing somewhere further down on the road that meandered through the canyon.

MacLeod met their questioning gaze, and then raced for the cliff-face that overlooked the winding road. He then told them to wait there while he checked it out. Charlie was all for waiting… although curious as to why it was all right for MacLeod to investigate. Richie dropped his pack and began to follow. Charlie reached for Richie's arm. Missing it, he dropped his pack and followed the young man.

They found a beat-up pickup truck had run off the road. Steam was rising from the engine and Charlie saw gas dripping underneath. Sparks emanated from the engine. "It's gonna blow!" Charlie shouted as MacLeod reached the vehicle and yanked the door open with a groan of twisted metal. He pulled a young woman from the truck and carried her to the other two. She awoke and began screaming, "My baby!"

MacLeod raced back to the truck and, just before it exploded, managed to retrieve the baby and hunch over it as he narrowly avoided getting caught in the explosion. The young woman raced from Richie and Charlie's arms to gather her baby from MacLeod. In the background, flames and black smoke licked high into the air.

-----

"Well with her truck in flames and ours not working… how are we gonna get Sarah and her baby to safety?"

"Charlie's got a point Mac," Richie was saying. "Besides… her story is kinda sketchy. And how come she doesn't just want us to take her to the authorities?" Richie asked. Charlie had the strange feeling that there was more going on between the two of them in regards Sarah Lightfoot and her explanation that she was trying to prohibit her dead husband's father from taking the baby away from her. Charlie had to admit… it sounded odd… but MacLeod had spoken briefly with this Hoskins fellow and said that the man demanded the baby.

Charlie looked into the brown eyes of Jamie… Sarah's son… and thought of his own childhood… and of growing up half-Italian and half-Black in a world where neither family liked to admit the other even existed. He glanced at his lighter skin and blinked his pale eyes. Being a part of two worlds was hard as a child… as an adult… he'd had to find his own path and proudly claimed them both. But with both his parents and both sets of grandparents long dead… no one would ever know how he'd managed to blaze his own path through life.

"We cut across land. That way we halve the forty-five miles to town that it would take via the road. It will only be about twenty-five miles."

"Are you crazy MacLeod?" Charlie argued. He rose, juggling Jamie in his arms and startling Sarah. "We can't take a baby and a woman on a forced overland march. You know how difficult it would be in the best of circumstances." He looked around. "And these aren't the best of circumstances. The baby will need food, shelter, diapers… and if we're trying to move quietly… it's not going to work."

"We could give Hoskins the baby and then accompany him and Sarah to the sheriff. You always say use the law Mac," Richie put in.

"No!" Sarah yelled and took Jamie back. "I won't let him have my baby! He lies! You heard him! All he wants is to get his hands on Jamie. If he does… I'll lose him forever." Tears sparkled in her dark eyes. "Please," Sarah added softly, "I can manage. I can hike and I have a few things for Jamie in my bag. We'll make it. Don't turn us over to Hoskins and his men."

MacLeod nodded, and Charlie could see he seemed thoughtful. "You understand we'll talk with the authorities once we arrive."

Sarah smiled bravely and nodded. "I understand."

Whatever was going on between Richie and MacLeod seemed to hang in the air between the two. Richie obviously thought the three men were helping Sarah far too easily. But wasn't that what the good guys did? Charlie smiled to himself as he loaded his backpack on his back and the four of them started cross-country. They were the good guys… and they helped people… people like Sarah Lightfoot.

-----

The afternoon soon turned into a confusing march through dense underbrush. MacLeod had left them for a time… laying another trail for the dogs that Hoskins had brought in to follow them. Charlie had to admit that the man was good. He'd learned quite a bit about following a trail in the Navy… but MacLeod knew how to throw off even the dogs. Where did he learn this stuff? What exactly was his secret? Charlie kept the three of them moving while MacLeod was gone. Using the compass, he kept in as straight and as easy (considering the landscape) path for the nearest town. Part of him wondered if this was a good idea… after all… wouldn't Hoskins know where they were heading?

Late in the afternoon, MacLeod showed up, sipped water from the canteen and wiped the sweat from his brow. His eyes had a strange haunted look as he watched Sarah interact with her baby. Suddenly he looked up. "We need to find shelter for overnight."

"The tent won't work?" Richie asked. "Then why are we carrying it?"

"It's not that heavy Richie."

"Well I've been carrying my load and half of yours so that you could run around playing hero!" Richie snapped.

Once again Charlie looked at the two men and wondered what was going on with them.

"That was different, Richie. Laura murdered her husband."

"Laura was scared and frightened and needed our help. Same thing here. You didn't believe Laura. What makes you believe Sarah?"

Charlie noticed Sarah hugging the baby tightly as Mac and Richie argued. She was shaking and crying. She was one frightened young woman.

"I'm just trying to do what's best. Taking Sarah to the authorities and letting them settle this custody fight is what's best for her… what's best for Jamie. I made the same decision for Laura. She was sick Richie… and now she's getting help."

"Yeah! You say one thing and then do another!" He pointed at Sarah whose hysteria was growing. "She could be lying!"

Voices in the distance made all three men glance up.

"Keep your voice down. They're on our trail again. Charlie, get Sarah and start off to the left. Richie… head right."

"What are you gonna do Mac?" Richie said with concern.

MacLeod grinned thinly and winked. "Slow them down. Now go… both of you."

Charlie pulled Sarah to her feet. "Come on Sarah… we have to keep moving."

"I won't let him have my baby! I won't!" she kept sobbing.

Charlie understood and told her so. "MacLeod 's a man of his word, Sarah. He's gonna get you some help."

"Hoskins controls the people in this valley. They'll do whatever he wants."

"We won't let that happen, Sarah," Charlie continued smoothly as he helped her along. "No mother should lose her baby for any reason." He was rewarded with the most radiant smile he had yet seen on Sarah Lightfoot's face. That smile, made him feel warm inside.


	46. Bless the Child, part 2

**46**

**Bless the Child, part 2**

By darkness they'd reassembled and MacLeod, looking weary and worried, had found a loggers' cabin. It had a few supplies and more importantly, shelter. They built a fire in the fireplace and settled in for the night. Charlie had found himself walking the floor with Jamie at one point just so Sarah could get some sleep.

"Hey little guy," he said joyfully and fully enjoying the experience of a baby in his arms. "Here's a bottle." Jamie, while he seemed to watch Charlie is fascination, did not take the nipple.

"I think you're working on the wrong end," chortled MacLeod as he rose from adding another log to the fire.

"Wrong end? Oh wait! Man I don't do diapers!"

"Not everyone can Charlie," MacLeod grinned and took Jamie in his arms with a sniff. "Yep… wrong end." He laid Jamie on a table and began removing the diaper and cleaning Jamie. Charlie watcher MacLeod's practiced hands and thought, _Is there anything this man can't do?_ After all, he could fight, he was a smart businessman, he was an expert tracker, and he was a good friend.

"You and the missus should have kids, MacLeod. A whole houseful of little MacLeods."

The man frowned and looked wistful for a moment. "I can't have kids Charlie."

"Then you gotta adopt, man. The things you know. You gotta pass that on."

MacLeod glanced at Richie asleep on the floor and sighed. "I do try Charlie. I do try."

"So what is going on with you and Richie?"

MacLeod put Jamie to his shoulder and shrugged. "Growing pains. He's becoming an adult and he needs room to develop his own opinions about things. He doesn't need to just accept mine."

"So you two disagreed on how to handle another damsel in distress?"

"Something like that, and now he's worried that I'm accepting Sarah's story too easily." He glanced at Sarah and saw her quickly close her eyes. He sighed. "I want to believe her, Charlie. But the main thing is Jamie and making certain he is safe. Hoskins is furious and some of his men are getting a little carried away with this pursuit. My leading them astray and tricking them is adding to the situation. Right now I'm just trying to make certain we get Jamie and Sarah to the authorities and let them sort all of this out. I wanted the same thing for Laura Daniels. It didn't matter that she'd killed someone. It didn't matter that it might have been justified. The only thing we can do Charlie is to help all parties find their way to safety and to let justice take its course."

"Wow! I think that's the most I've ever heard you say at one time," Charlie nodded. "Okay… Jamie is the important one. He belongs with his mother."

"I didn't say that he didn't, but Charlie we don't have all the information. We have Sarah's story. Above and beyond that is this little guy." MacLeod held him up before him and made noises and sounds. Jamie cackled. "He is who I'm hoping to help."

By early morning they were on the trail again, hoping to make time against Hoskins who'd evidently drawn back last night and would be starting out again this morning. According to the map, they still had about fifteen miles to go over rough terrain. Hoskins had vehicles, men and dogs. He would be watching the road and his men would be coming after them again through the woods. Charlie understood how these things happened.

Occasionally yesterday there had been gunshots in the distance. He'd asked MacLeod about them but the man had shrugged that he supposed that Hoskins men were signaling their positions to each other. Richie had said little this morning. He still looked grim and furious. Evidently there were some deep divisions and hurts between the boy and MacLeod. Charlie hoped they would patch them up. That had likely been the plan on this trip. But then Sarah and Jamie had happened. Charlie glanced at the young woman and hoped she was worth it. The kid definitely was. He smiled. If things worked out here… he'd like to watch Jamie grow up. Oh he wasn't interested in Sarah or in being a daily part of their lives… but the boy had stolen his heart and he found that he didn't want to just hand him over and leave. He'd never been able to understand men who didn't take care of their children… men who turned their backs on their own flesh and blood. He never would. He doubted MacLeod or Richie ever would either.

Hours later, Sarah vanished for a short time and was nearly caught by one of Hoskins' men. MacLeod to the rescue! Charlie and Richie were busy just trying to keep moving. Charlie had a feeling that Hoskins likely knew where they were headed now and might get ahead of them and somehow block their way. During a rest stop, he glanced at the survey maps of the region that they were using and ran his fingers along the ridgelines. Pretty soon they would be funneled into a canyon… and at the end of the canyon. Charlie tapped his finger on the map. "MacLeod… we might have a problem."

Glancing at the map and then at the surrounding hillsides that were closing in on them, MacLeod nodded. "They've herded us into a canyon." He growled slightly as he gazed about the forest. If MacLeod looked uneasy, Charlie figured that they were really in trouble.

"Think all those gunshots yesterday were to head us in this direction?" Charlie finally asked.

MacLeod nodded. "Possibly. And they're likely ahead of now too." He shot a glance at Sarah and Jamie, and Charlie noticed a dark expression on his boss' face.

"What is it MacLeod?"

"I don't think we have the whole story," MacLeod replied as he stalked over to Sarah and crouched before her. He softly pulled back Jamie's blanket and smiled at the baby. "How is he?"

"He's fine."

"And the rash?"

Sarah was silent. Then she shrugged.

"You gave him berries Sarah. He was allergic to them. Why didn't you know that he was allergic to them?"

Again Sarah shrugged. "It never occurred to me. I've usually just used the bottle and commercial baby food."

"A mother would know these things," Duncan replied in that superior tone that he often had.

Sarah clutched Jamie tighter. "I didn't know about a berry allergy."

Suddenly Duncan began speaking to her in what must have been her native tongue. _How the heck does this guy know these things?_ Charlie shook his head. MacLeod was a puzzle and a mystery. Charlie definitely wanted to know more about him.

"You called him your daughter in your native tongue, Sarah. Why would you do that?"

Tears brimmed in Sarah's eyes. She shook her head.

At that moment… there was another series of gunshots and the sounds of voices and dogs behind them.

MacLeod stood up. "We have to keep moving."

Richie grabbed his arm. "She's lying to us Mac. Why should we keep moving?"

"To make certain that Jamie is safe," MacLeod replied and they were racing through the forest once more. By the time they reached the cliff-face that blocked their progress, MacLeod had a plan. It would take a bit of time… but it would work. "You a climber Charlie?" he asked. Charlie nodded. "I want you going up first. Sarah will be behind you, so you can help show her the way. Richie…" MacLeod turned to the young man. "You'll be next. I'll follow up on the rear as the safety net." He crossed to Sarah and took Jamie from her protesting arms. "I'll carry him. You'll need both hands." Swiftly he unloaded a backpack and situated Jamie inside it, placing it over his chest so that he could keep an eye on him. Sarah almost protested further, but then did as she was told. Charlie took her hand as they prepared to climb.

The climb was slow and difficult without ropes or pitons. Charlie concentrated on finding safe hand and footholds and assisting Sarah. They reached a ledge about halfway up and he paused beside her while she breathed heavily and rocked back and forth. As soon as MacLeod reached the ledge, she reached for Jamie, holding him as if he were the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Who is Amschen?" MacLeod asked her softly. "I can't help you if you don't tell me."

For once, Richie made no attempt to say anything. He looked back and forth between MacLeod and Sarah, as if trying to fathom the unspoken truths about the situation and about whatever was bothering him about MacLeod. Sarah kept shaking her head and rocking Jamie back and forth.

"Please Sarah," MacLeod said tenderly. "Was Amschen your daughter? What happened to her?"

Sarah began to sob. Charlie glanced fearfully up and down the cliff-face. If MacLeod kept this up, Sarah would be unable to continue. Charlie did not want to be trapped on this ledge. Already he worried if Hoskins men were above or below them.

As it turned out… they were both. Apparently, unless they were willing to turn the baby over to Hoskins now, they were trapped.

At the arrival of Hoskins and his men, something broke in Sarah and the entire story came out… how Amschen, her daughter had gotten sick from the run-off in the water from Hoskins' mine and how she'd sworn to avenge her. She mentioned how Hoskins' brother Billy had offered her money to say nothing about Amschen's death. After Jamie's mother died, she'd seen a chance to make Hoskins pay. She would take his son… and make him hers.

Charlie shook his head. Grief can do strange things to people. He found he was angry with himself for believing her story so completely… but then… it was Jamie he'd been focused on. He did the only thing he could think of… silently he hugged Sarah and helped her with Jamie. MacLeod was right… the baby was who was important… but if Jamie were to be kept safe, he had to keep Sarah settled. Charlie feared that if the young woman were given an ultimatum… she might attempt to just jump… hoping to kill both herself and the baby. Charlie realized he needed to stay close to her.

At dark, MacLeod eased down the slope to talk to Hoskins about getting Sarah and Jamie to safety. It was near dawn when he returned. By then, Charlie, Richie, and Sarah were shivering. Jamie… well swaddled in blankets… appeared to be the only one who'd fared well through the cold night.

"Now that it's light, Sarah," MacLeod was saying. "We're climbing to the top and accompanying Hoskins into town. He's sending away his men and dogs. He's agreed not to press charges against you for kidnapping."

"No," trembled Sarah, backing against the cliff and rising to her feet. "He's mine! I won't give him up!"

"Sarah… think of Jamie… think of Amschen? Who would remember her and sing her songs if you die?" MacLeod was saying calmly as he positioned himself to catch her if she tried to jump.

From below, Hoskins was gazing up with worry. Above them… a shot rang out.

Hoskins shouted, "Billy! No guns! No shooting! I told you that!"

MacLeod launched himself against Sarah. "Listen to me Sarah. Hoskins didn't know anything about Amschen. He didn't know anything about the mine. He was not the one who tried to pay you off to keep quiet. It was Billy."

Sarah met his gaze, shaking her head in denial.

"Sarah… you need to let me have Jamie. You need to let me take him back to his father."

Charlie started. "His father?" He glanced down at Hoskins and then at Sarah. "What the hell?"

Richie grumbled. "Oh man are we in the middle of something now." The boy glanced up at the shooter. "I don't think that guy is gonna put that rifle down, Mac."

Billy was aiming at them again when a shot rang out from below. This time, Billy flinched, twirled, lost his footing and plummeted to the ground far below.

"Hold on up there. I'll have tackle and ropes sent down. Is Jamie all right?"

"He's fine Hoskins," MacLeod called down to him. He smiled gently at Sarah. "We're all going to be fine."

It ended up that they didn't go into the next town. Once MacLeod handed Jamie over to Avery Hoskins, the man broke into tears. "I thought I'd lost you," he sobbed as he held his son closely. His actions spoke loudly to Charlie. The man was indeed telling the truth. The child was clearly his. Sarah seemed despondent. MacLeod kept talking to her about the importance of living and remembering her dead daughter. Finally she'd walked away into the woods unheeded by Hoskins. Charlie could only hope that Sarah would be all right.

"Man," Richie was saying after they'd ridden back to Hoskins' place and had picked up Charlie's truck. Charlie had spent part of the day getting the thing to run. He'd bought this after his car had been stolen and trashed. It was still in the shop… and this thing was pretty much worthless. Finally the two drove the truck to Hoskins' house to pick up MacLeod.

His boss looked weary when he climbed back in.

"So what about Sarah?" Richie asked him.

"Hoskins is grieving. It seems Billy shot his other brother so along with losing his wife; he's now lost his entire family except for Jamie. He won't press charges against Sarah. What she does with her life is up to her."

"Grief can do strange things to people," Charlie agreed. He'd been too young when his father died to understand that… and his mom had been too sick before her death last year for him to be sorry that she'd died. He'd seen her death as a release from pain. But to suddenly lose someone about whom your world revolved? He wondered how anyone could manage.

"I hope he'll help Sarah. And he's closing the mine now that he knows about the run-off. He's struggling to do the right thing. This whole situation could have been avoided if the principles had just been honest with one another." He eyed Richie. "We need to talk… clear the air. I need to explain and you need to listen… really listen. I'm not God Richie. I don't know everything… but I do have reasons for the things I do." He grinned. "Besides… I'm older than you. I'd save you from learning things the hard way."

"I'm not a kid Mac," Richie groused.

"Then don't act like one. As I said… we'll talk… just you and me."

"Old man to kid?"

MacLeod laughed as Charlie tried the ignition. "How about friend to friend?"

The engine wouldn't start. "Man," Charlie groaned as he laid his head against the steering wheel. "Have I mentioned how much I hate this piece of junk?"


	47. Seasons in Time, part 1

**47**

_**Seasons in Time, part 1** _

Thunder rumbled on the horizon, promising rain and perhaps a cool breeze. Looking up from his patient, Dieter Lindenauer pulled the stethoscope from his ears and hung it around his neck. "Your heart sounds fine… and so does the baby's," he said softly to the woman. She was also HIV positive and worried about her unborn child. At least, unlike hundreds of others, she was in a place that cared about her, where food and medicines were available for them both… as well as schooling for her other children. After a few more pleasantries, Dieter rose and moved to screened windows and felt the first stirrings of the blessed cool breeze that preceded the storm. Lightning flashed in the dark clouds that grew in the distance like a cancer. Overhead, the sun still shone, but he had a feeling it wouldn't continue for much longer. He was getting a feel for the weather here, which was so unlike his long centuries in France.

"I should have come here long ago," he whispered to the breeze, trusting that it would carry his spoken words far away from here where no one would ever hear them. He sensed Rachel behind him, and felt her hand on his sweat-drenched shirt.

"The rain will cool things off," he said. She laughed as he flung an arm around her shoulders, despite the heat. "What's so funny?"

"Oh… it will be nice for all of about five minutes. Then it will be a downpour that will get everything wet. It's monsoon season… or what passes for that here. When it stops… the temperature will rise so fast that steam will form and we'll feel like we're in a steam bath instead of a dry sauna."

"Oh," Dieter replied, properly chided. "But for a few moments…" He let his voice trail off.

She nodded. Her blonde hair, pulled into a high ponytail, bobbed slightly as she did so. Absently, she wiped the back of her hand across her sweating brow. "This is a land of extremes. There is nothing moderate about it." She winked at him, gave him a brief kiss and then shrugged free to attend to her next patient. Dieter watched her go and then realized that a small boy, sitting in the nearby bed was grinning up at him. When Dieter met his gaze, the boy hid his face in his hands and hunched his too-thin shoulders as he laughed gleefully if somewhat shyly. Evidently Dieter's relationship with his "cousin" was common knowledge.

_Well why hide it?!_ He smiled as he gazed over the African landscape surrounding the hospital. Mirage heat still rose from the cracked and thirsty earth. Other than here within the compound itself, nothing was green on the savannah. He leaned one hand on the window frame, the other hand at his back and realized that he was happy here. He was content. The two of them were doing good work… and so what if they slept together! It wasn't as if he were a Roman Catholic priest any longer. That occupation belonged to another life… another name… in another land.

But Robert evidently wondered. The Anglican priest had been in attendance when an old woman had died recently and had evidently noticed Dieter's signing of the cross over her and heard his mumbled Latin prayer. A day or so later, while they were enjoying the night air after dinner one evening, Robert had asked him if he'd been a priest.

Dieter had started… unaware that the persona had managed to cling to him even here.

"I…" he stammered.

Robert laughed. "Not to worry… I just recognized some of myself in you."

"I do not understand," Dieter had replied honestly. That's when Robert had explained how he, too, had once been a Roman Catholic priest.

"I came to a crisis of faith as I debated what my heart told me to do and what my bishop told me. In the end… I left and eventually became an Anglican priest." He laughed, "Otherwise known as Catholic Light. Within this faith, I could still serve God and my conscience did not prick me quite so much."

"And when did you meet Sophie?" Dieter had asked.

"A few years later. Her parents were missionaries… this was a life she knew and understood. We fit well together."

"So she teaches school and helps out in the infirmary, while you teach and preach."

Robert shrugged. "I offer counseling to those who seek it. I don't proselytize." He winked. "I'm not here to save souls so much as lives. Without education and a chance for survival… these people will be lost."

He'd asked about Dieter's past, but the immortal had shaken his head. It wasn't that he didn't think Robert would understand; it was just that being in the world again after so many centuries made him wary of saying too much.

Dieter now turned from the window with its view of the oncoming storm to complete his rounds. He was picking up the local languages fairly quickly, and his practice sessions in the evenings with Rachel showed that his body was remembering the old moves more and more quickly. The best thing about this life was that he had no sense of _déjà vu_. This was a life filled with decisions he'd never made before, and that filled him with an enthusiasm he hadn't felt in a long, long time. He found he relished this new game. Granted he shouldn't recall the previous ones, and he didn't really… but he'd won enough times that some of those decisions and other memories remained with him. He wondered how Duncan was doing this time and if he recalled those things that had happened before. He wondered if his young friend was enjoying the different choices he'd made.

A dust plume rose as a speeding vehicle made it's way up the road to the compound. Dieter could hear a voice yelling. Rachel's eyes had widened and she'd quickly finished with her current patient and taken off suddenly at a speedy pace. Dieter finished his, and patted her arm with a smile before he, too, headed outside, curious as to what was so important.

Rachel and Robert were in a heated conversation with Jacob Baswana, one of their workers. Nearby, stood a worried Sophie, pale beneath her tropical tan.

"You must leave this place," Jacob was telling them. "Robert Mogambwa and his troops are headed in this direction. They have sworn to slaughter all Europeans and to rid the land of our sick people." He gestured toward some of the HIV-positive children. "He says he will cleanse the land and our people of the disease that came because of the white men whose gods have different names."

"This is a high-profile mission," Robert was insisting. "Mogambwa wouldn't' dare. He'd bring down the wrath of every Western nation. Their armies would annihilate his in the blink of an eye."

"Please Father Robert, you must go," Jacob insisted.

Robert snorted and shook his head.

"They will come and kill you all."

Dieter tilted his head thoughtfully and had a sudden realization. _This is how they always died_, he thought. The Sandersons would insist on remaining, and Rachel would remain as well… and the warlord would come and kill them… likely beheading them. Rachel's immortal life ended here. Had he heard about it in some other life… a life where he'd not known her and hadn't cared? His mouth felt dry; his hands cold.

"How far behind you is he?" he finally managed to say.

"A few hours. I drove very fast to get back."

"And he gave you that few hours," Dieter mused.

Jacob tried to deny it, but his expression showed that Dieter's words had struck a chord.

"He's led them here," he said turning to the other three. "Send the patients and students into the jungle. They can hide among the populace better than we can. None of them should come with us. Pack emergency supplies and let's go."

"But…" Sophie protested, "they need us. Some of them can't travel. They're sick… dying."

Something of the old persona of barbarian general settled on Dieter's shoulders. "Then they can choose to die here or die on the trail. Pack up!" He began to stride away, angry that this peaceful life was ending. He, at least, was suddenly not yet ready to die.

Rachel followed him, pulling at his arm. "What do you know?"

Dieter stopped and took a deep breath. "I know that Jacob is right. If we remain here any longer… we will die."

"What if you're wrong? Jacob has been with us for many years."

"I'm not wrong," he hissed levelly at her. "He sold us all out to Mogambwa. He came… knowing that the Sandersons wouldn't leave. And I know you wouldn't leave them. Now we go and they go with us."

Robert had closed in on them by this point. "You two leave if you must. Sophie and I stay."

"I won't leave you behind," Rachel was already saying.

"Listen to me!" Dieter yelled at them both. "Men will come and they won't just kill you… they'll machete your bodies to pieces. You will both die! You have fifteen minutes to pack a bag. Make it lightweight. We have a long journey ahead of us."

"Why lightweight? We can take the Jeep…" Robert protested.

"And meet Mogambwa's people on the road from here?" Dieter yelled and pointed at the road. "Our only hope is to vanish within the jungle. We go on foot."

"Then Sophie and I have to remain behind," Robert insisted. "We're not as young as you two. We'd only slow you down."

"I won't go unless you both go," Rachel insisted.

Dieter could see their death now… a death that was final, bloody and oh so senseless. In another life it was just a headline or some news footage. It had meant nothing to him. But now it did.

"Robert, please," Dieter said softly. "We have to try." He knew if he remained, he'd die here as well… and his quickening would be lost along with Rachel's.

Robert glanced back at Sophie. "I'll see what I can do. You two get ready." He turned and with sagging shoulders went back to his wife.

Dieter grabbed Rachel by the arm and propelled her along.

"We can't leave them here to die," she was arguing. "You and I can prevent this from happening. It's not right to just leave them or the patients. We'll survive."

"No," he said in a clipped voice. "We won't. If none of us are here, then there is a chance. Help me convince them."

Swiftly he threw bottled water, trail rations, and a few items of clothing into a backpack and strapped his sword across his back. He picked up the coat and then tossed it to one side. The time for subtleties was over.

He was relieved to see Rachel emerge from her room, suitable clothed, with a pack over one shoulder and with her sword buckled about her waist as well. They crossed to the Sanderson bungalow where they could hear the two arguing. Dieter made to go in, but Rachel stopped him. "Let me," she said quietly and went inside.

He paced with worry outside, the thunder keeping tempo with his footfalls in the dusty, packed earth. They needed to get out of here! Already he saw the patients and students, bags on their backs or on their heads, heading swiftly and silently out into the jungle to hide and blend in. when the warlord arrived, hopefully he'd find only an empty compound. He glanced again at the Sandersons' bungalow. They didn't have time for this! Why didn't they understand the seriousness of the situation?

He glanced up with relief as the Sanderson couple accompanied Rachel outside. Robert carried a small bag for both of them. Sophie looked at their people leaving and sighed, wiping away tears. "What will happen to the ones who can't move? No one will be here to help them."

"They'll die, regardless if you are here," Dieter said and pivoted to head toward the jungle. He felt the pleasing persona of the Swedish doctor as well as the gentle one of the French priest falling away from him. He embraced an older identity… the barbarian general he'd once been. To survive, it was what they needed. Rain was beginning to fall and Rachel had been right. It would feel good for all of about five minutes.

-----

Night had nearly fallen and the rain continued. By this time, all four of them were soaked through and through, and cold, even though the temperature wasn't that low. Still… between the rain and the darkness, they were chilled.

Darius paused on the trail to wait for the others. While Rachel was supposed to be bringing up the rear, she was moving fast enough that she'd taken Sophie's other arm and was attempting to speed her up or steady her. She was helping to encourage Robert. It was hopeless! Darius needed to find them some shelter… hopefully something off the trail. But in the darkness… it was impossible. He had a flashlight, but didn't want to betray their position to anyone following, as using it would surely do.

He lifted his face to the omnipresent rain and shook his head, trying to think clearly. The others were beside him now. In a flash of lightning he noticed how the trail bent toward a cliff-face, covered with creepers. "That way," he pointed and cut through the underbrush toward the cliff. Once there, he pushed and prodded until he found a depression in the rock that was big enough to hold them all.

He helped the others climb into it and then tried to cover the tracks of their passage after they'd left the path. Finally satisfied that he'd done what could be done, he climbed into the depression and sat on his haunches to listen and survey the nearby trail. He had to hope that in leaving as swiftly as they had, that Mogambwa's forces were still hours behind them.

Robert and Sophie spoke softly to one another and he could hear sobs of weariness and stress. He ignored it. Eventually they were silent; likely an exhausted sleep had at last overtaken them. Only then did Rachel settle down next to him, laying her head on his arm.

"You think I was too hard on them," he commented softly.

"I think I'm seeing a side of you I never knew."

"I led armies for four centuries. I knew how to push them ever forward in bad weather and when to stop. Stopping now is a mistake… but they can go no further in the darkness." He slipped an arm about her, his fingers tangling in her hair.

"They'll be stronger in the morning," she whispered back to him. "And you need to sleep as well."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead," he replied grimly and changed position to lean against the rocks at his back. She moved with him, lying in his embrace with a weary sigh.

Darius continued to watch the rain, falling just inches away. At some point, the regular thunder booms or the staccato beat of the rain lulled him into an uneasy sleep where a green and blue ball bounced on a white surface.

The distant feel of an immortal presence woke him. In the predawn light, the world before him was an eerie white. The steam rising from the surrounding jungle and obscuring the depression from sight was the aftermath of the torrential rain and the rising temperature of the new day. All he could see from the depression was the white shimmering steam wafting amongst the shadowy trees. Occasionally he could hear the calls of wild animals on the hunt. No one would see them here, but the immortal on the trail would feel them.

He shifted a still sleeping Rachel to one side and eased down the cliff-face. He had to meet this challenge. He knew that now. Death was being insistent about claiming its prize, but Darius might yet save the others. He just hoped he was up to the challenge. Being physically ready to fight and being willing to kill someone were two entirely different things. He wasn't certain he could do the latter. He stood on the far side of the path in the mist and fog, aware of the movements of the approaching band of men. Stealth was called for. He had to even the odds if he was to have any hope of saving the others. He drew his heavy hunter's knife and began to silently move amongst them, deploying the knife as a silent but deadly killer. He had to get rid of as many as possible before the immortal arrived. Darius couldn't think about the men dying… he couldn't afford to.

At one point he turned, ready to kill again and realized that Rachel had joined him. Together they were decimating their trackers. In and out of the mist they moved. If they moved far enough away, the Sandersons might go undetected.

Darius' light clothing clung like a wet second skin. In the white mist, he appeared no more than a pale, ghostly figure. The darker skinned members of the war-band were easier to see. He used his slight advantage with deadly efficiency. One by one he came up behind one, silenced him with his hand, and drew the knife across his throat. Then he eased the body to the ground and moved on. He had no time for prayers, absolution… or guilt. It was kill or be killed… a choice he thought he'd turned his back on long ago.

The feeling of the other immortal was closer now. Darius paused on the edge of a clearing… actually little more than a wide spot on the trail. He drew his sword and hunkered down, focused on his breathing. Rachel, he sensed had copied him. He could feel her clearly in the mist and could hear her light breathing.

The other was approaching, cursing under his breath and slicing away at the underbrush. He now felt them as well and he would be coming this way. He was already armed and alerted. He tripped over something, a body perhaps, as he'd reached the killing area.

"Well done, white doctor. My sources said you were a sly devil. Now I know that this is true! Come out now. Face me and die."

Darius said nothing. After all, why let this man know where he was? Why betray his position and allow the other a shot at him? After all, he was surely as well armed, as his men had been. He evidently couldn't distinguish that there were two immortals waiting for him. Darius prayed silently that he would manage to deal with his opponent before he ever knew that Rachel was also here.

The mist seemed to be thinning. He could make out Rachel's form now. Inwardly Darius cursed at the luck. He motioned for her to move back from the clearing… and to circle around behind him. He hoped to keep the other man confused.

She did so, but in the process stepped on a branch that _cracked_ in the silence. She hesitated as the sound echoed in the mist, and then dove for cover as the gunshots erupted. He heard her _oomph _as she hit the ground. She was still… far too still. Every instinct he had made him want to rush to her… make certain she was all right. But caution, born of a thousand battles nearly sixteen hundred years ago made him remain still.

Laughter erupted. "I believe I have dealt the white doctor a killing blow." He heard the sound of a shove and then footsteps on the brush. He must have been pushing a flunky forward to examine Rachel's body. Still Darius maintained his silence and his stillness. He would have one chance… and he meant to take it. His mouth flinched as a dark figure leaned over Rachel's body and began to paw at her.

"She is dead _effendi_," he said, a slight cackle in his voice. "Too bad, I would have had much pleasure with her."

"You would not have lived long enough to complete the act even once," the immortal replied sarcastically. "Now stand away and move on down the trail. We still must find the missionaries." Darius could see the second shadow move beside the other one who rose, bowed and moved further down the trail.

"The female doctor," he mused, as he seemed to crouch over Rachel's prone body He drew his blade and rose. "And where is the male doctor? With the missionaries? Or?" He wavered in the mist as if thinking… sensing… and then turned toward Darius.

Darius took that moment to leap to his feet and strike with all of his might. The other had had only a moment… but it had been enough. He blocked the stroke and tried to bring his handgun to bear on his attacker. Darius slammed his blade two-handed against his opponent again and again… forcing the other to back up and in an attempt to keep him off-balance. His attacks finally caused the other to drop his handgun.

They disengaged. Darius heard Rachel draw in a breath. She'd be back soon, thankfully.

"Two of you, how remarkable. We are not creatures who forge alliances," the other said. "I am Achmed ibn Qatar. Who might I be facing?"

"Darius of the Goths," Darius replied and spit the sour taste of sweat from his mouth.

"Darius the priest? He is dead… or so it is said."

"Do you believe your senses or only what you've heard?" the Goth repeated. He was on the balls of his feet now, blinking in the mists to get a clearer look at Qatar. The other was trying to maneuver closer to his dropped firearm.

With grim determination, Darius attacked once more, swinging in a controlled pattern he'd learned long ago and had used to deadly effect time and again. Once the battle had started, his mind let his body anticipate the other's moves… and counter them. Now he was again on the attack. There had been a reason he'd been an effective warrior and then general… and it had nothing to do with his immortality. It had to do with his lightning fast reflexes when he was in battle. It was all part of a controlled battle-rage that his people had been known for. _Feel nothing. Concentrate on the opponent. Anticipate! _Darius could hear the words as if he'd heard them yesterday… words that had been buried deep within him for centuries. Words he'd turned his back on. He had to embrace them again… or Rachel and the Sandersons would die. His life had purpose and this change might alter the game for all time. He was forcing a change by reason of his being here… they would not die this day as they always had. Destiny pulled against him to walk away and to let them die … to follow the path of least resistance. But he was not going to allow it!

In a flurry of movement, his sword finally found its target and Qatar's head slid from his neck without protesting. Then the quickening roared from the man's corpse.

Darius screamed as it slammed into him… exploding along his nerve pathways in memories that were not his. Qatar had come into the game one hundred fifty seven years ago and had even ridden with the Madi in the great conflict that had made this land run red with blood. He'd seen the same dedication and charisma in Robert Mogambwa. He'd allied himself with the warlord. He'd not expected an immortal until he'd felt Darius among the fleeing "white devils" on the jungle path… certainly not two of them.

Darius fell to his knees as the storm began again. Raging torrents of water flowed. Thunder boomed and lightning crackled over him. He sobbed as he realized that he'd lost the calm center of the Ancient that had been so long a part of him. Now Emrys was just one voice among many… and Darius was once more in the game.

He felt Rachel softly touch his shoulder and he turned to embrace her while sobbing. A gunshot rang out and a bullet pierced his arm. Rachel screamed and turned, firing her own weapon at Qatar's last remaining man. She took him out.

Darius numbly watched his arm heal. Then he slowly rose to his feet and held both arms out in a silent prayer until the rain had washed away any trace of blood. Pulling Rachel close, he kissed her firmly as if to ensure himself that she was still real. Then the two of them staggered wearily back to the cliff-face… and the Sandersons. He wondered if he confessed his deeds to Robert if he might yet receive absolution… or even if it was possible. He finally decided to say nothing.

-----

They made it into Mogadishu by week's end. They'd walked up to the gates of the British embassy, where Robert and Sophie had shown their passports and been admitted. Then Darius and Rachel had turned away and vanished into the milling crowds without a word.

Darius now knew one thing. It was time he contacted Duncan MacLeod again.


	48. Seasons in Time, part 2

**48**

_**Seasons in Time, part 2**_

Allowing no expression in his face, Marcus Constantine sat back in his chair; he laid his hand of cards down on the green felt covering the table. "Four Kings." Outside a chill winter rain was falling and he could hear the sounds of traffic.

Delbert Monroe tossed his hand down with a petulant snarl. "How do you do that?" he snorted as he polished off his brandy.

"Can't you tell?" Geraint Dumont snickered. "He doesn't drink when he's gambling."

Monroe glared and then chuckled as Marcus raised his glass of water and shook it so that the ice tinkled against the glass.

Lucius Severnus rolled his eyes and rose to draw another beer from the keg he'd brought. Marcus followed him with his eyes and then turned back to gather his winnings and stack the chips. "I do drink when I gamble Dumont. I just don't drink alcohol."

At the door he heard Angela arrive home. He glanced at his watch. "Ahh… the movie must be over." He rose while Dumont idly shuffled cards and kissed Angela on the cheek, asking how the movie had been.

"It was _magnifique_!' she purred and pulled at his shirt. "I have lovely ideas for later." She winked and then laughed, giving his poker friends a wave as she headed up the stairs to their bedroom.

"I have a feeling she wants the game over," Severnus said quietly as he sipped his beer.

Marcus nodded. "You're likely right. Shall we call it a night?"

After a bit of grumbling, Monroe and Dumont had left and Severnus was gathering up his keg.

"How goes our project," Marcus muttered quietly to his old friend. They usually had only a few moments to discuss the "education of Tiri" as Severnus had begun to call it.

"She's up to the Hundred Years War and the battle of Agincourt," Severnus snorted. "Her French is atrocious but her English begins to pass muster."

"She always was one of the smarter ones."

Severnus eyed him levelly. "I still have my doubts about this."

"Do you sleep with her?" Marcus asked, finding he cared about the answer.

Severnus laughed as he shifted the keg to his shoulder and pulled a hat on, the brim low on his forehead. "I like my head just where it is. Intimacy implies trust and I most certainly don't trust her. Nor should you. I have her stashed at Madame Renaud's only to cover why I visit there… not for my personal ego. There is no way I want her knowing anything about my current identity."

"Perhaps she should visit the museum soon. It's time I face her."

Severnus gave him a long, sober look and then shrugged. "Likely not one of your better ideas. She's still rather fixated on the glee she felt when she discovered that Rome no longer ruled the world. Once she knows that you're alive… I doubt I can restrain her."

Marcus showed him the door and then closed up the house, turning out the lights a on his way to Angela in the upstairs bedroom. He was eagerly anticipating what ideas she had to try.

-----

Methos made certain that Benedietti hadn't recognized him. He'd agreed to the poker games mainly as a means for them to talk briefly before and/or after the others arrived or left. It was a bit dangerous, but he had his cover story ready just in case he was recognized. Benedietti had never met him, so unless their paths crossed in some Watcher meeting, he doubted that "Lucius Severnus" would ring a bell. The little computer database project he was working on with don Salzer would let him keep track of the Watchers and who would be where, as well as immortals. He grinned as he hailed a cab and settled in the rear seat. They'd take a drive past the Eiffel Tower and if no one were following, he'd chance going to Madame Renaud's salon… truly one of the best whorehouses in Paris.

-----

Nefertiri yawned. She was bored. Rising, she held the drapes aside to stare down at the rainy Paris street and noticed the taxi pull up in front. She smirked, recognizing the tall thin form of the immortal she had first known as Raan… her mentor. Oh he was using other names now, she was certain… but at least he came by to see her frequently.

"You've been sleeping for two thousand years, Nefertiri. You have to take the time to learn history, culture and languages and to become proficient or you will fall to the first immortal you meet."

"I need only to practice my skill with the blade," she'd snapped at him. This modern life where immortals hid who they were and did not openly wear swords confused and angered her. She was a daughter of the Nile, beloved of Osiris, handmaiden to Cleopatra, and guardian of Egypt. Men should bow down and worship her!

She dropped the drape and glanced into the reflecting glass on the wall to be certain her hair and makeup were perfect. She smoothed her gown and swiftly reapplied some of the musky scent Raan had brought her as a gift. "Perhaps tonight," she cooed to her reflection. Raan had always been hands-off with her. He had been her teacher long ago but never her lover. Even in this modern world he maintained that distance. But Nefertiri had always wanted more.

She flashed him a smile as he knocked and entered her room. "Candygram."

"Candy… that is sweets like honey. Gram… that is something of little weight?" she puzzled. "Ahh… you have brought me small sweets!" she crowed triumphantly.

He raised an eyebrow and laughed. "Not precisely… but I do have an excellent beer we might share." He shifted the keg from his shoulder to the low table and straightened up. "Glasses?"

She found two and handed them to him. She had drunk beer long ago… it was a staple of Egypt… and had read that it was still drunk today. She'd asked him for some. "I am weary of drinking water! Water is for peasants!" she'd told him haughtily.

He'd laughed. Evidently he'd taken her seriously though. He poured her a glass and handed it to her, and then poured one for himself, wryly observing the way she smelled it and then tentatively tasted it. She spat it out. "This is like stale well water that has been pissed in!" she snapped.

Raan laughed. "So I've often said. But you wanted to know what modern man drank as spirits." He sprawled on the sofa. "But one makes do." He drank his deeply and then wiped the foam from his mouth. "Now then… tell me what you learned today. In English please."

"Ahh…" she laughed and curled at his feet. She tossed her dark hair and picked up one of the slim volumes she'd spent the day reading. "This Machiavelli truly understands what it means to be a ruler. He must have studied the writings of my queen," she said. "I would like to meet him."

Raan chuckled. "He wrote that over three hundred years ago."

"Yet his observations are timeless. Surely he is one of us."

Raan shrugged and motioned for her to continue. She grabbed the annotated Shakespeare. 'This writer wrote of Caesar and Antony as if he knew them. But they did not talk this way. Caesar was a bully and Antony was a manipulator. My queen knew how to control them both."

"It all comes down to Cleopatra doesn't it," he said wryly over his beer. "She is the very touchstone of your life."

"Touch… to caress," Nefertiri said with a sly grin. "Stone… hard. You wish me to caress something hard." There was no doubt as she seductively licked her lips, what her understanding of that word had brought to mind. She reached up and pressed a hand into his crotch. He shifted and let out a small grimace of surprise. He removed her hand.

"Not tonight."

"But when?" she pouted. "You are no longer my mentor… my teacher. You are my friend. You rescued me and are helping me adjust. I would repay you."

"Let's just say I'd rather we kept this on a friendly basis. I don't sleep with immortal women."

She rose on her knees and leaned on his lap, her lower lip protruding as she regarded him. "Surely there is some way I can show my gratitude?" Again she pressed hand against him, smiling as she felt him harden. "There are many things I can do. Why the women of this place do many of them with the men who come here. Why should I be any different?"

He eyed her darkly as he seemed to consider what she was implying. Then he finished his beer. "Perhaps I'd better leave."

Nefertiri switched her position around and lifted her gown to show her naked ass. "If it is boys you like… you can take me that way."

"Bloody hell woman! I said no!" he thundered as he pushed her to the floor and rose. She'd never seen him truly angry before… he was usually so patient with her… always had been.

"Forgive me," she said, lowering her eyes. "I mistook your reluctance. I only wish to serve."

He crouched beside her and grasped her arms. "Women are not subservient to men in this world. You need to learn that. You are not here for my pleasure or any man's pleasure."

"Women do not use sex to control men any longer?" she asked.

He sighed and nodded. "Some do… but I don't care for them. Now get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow I will take you to a fencing academy where you can begin to practice again. You've enough skill with the language to begin going out some… but only with me. If you were to go on your own and get lost… you'd be an easy target." He rose, and gestured toward the beer. "Do you want me to leave that?"

Nefertiri shook her head fervently. "You are leaving then?"

"I have things to do," she said off-handedly and gathered up the keg. "I'll be by after lunch. Be ready. And dress appropriately for fighting."

"Raan?"

He turned back toward her, hesitating at the door. "Yes?"

"When I can survive on my own… will you let me sleep with you?"

He regarded her for some moments and then shrugged. "All things are possible Nefertiri. I doubt it… but I won't say never."

He left her then… and she was alone once more in the emptiness of this cold and barren time and place. Never had she known the world could be so cold as it was here. Never had she known winter as it was called. Nefertiri missed the warm climate of her home. She crawled naked into the too-soft bed and stretched between the cotton coverings, letting her hands pleasure herself since he would not. Memories of how Marcus Constantine could make her feel fueled her movements. Despite his betrayal of her and her queen… he had been the most consummate of lovers. He had always known how to give her great pleasure. Finally she curled into a ball and slept… wondering if such a man still existed.

-----

"This is a sword?" Nefertiri sneered and made to toss the thin _epee_ away.

"This is for practice. You're out of practice these days and you'd be an easy mark," Raan said as he gripped her arm and spat his words into her ear. "Do you want to die?"

"No," she replied. That much was certain. She'd slept for two thousand years and was still alive. Now she wanted to live! She found this practice sword called an epee and the white padded clothing she had to wear ridiculous. She was immortal!

"But mortals are here. We can't have you bleeding all over the place and then healing," he'd told her when she'd complained about that earlier.

She'd smirked back. "Who says I'd be the one bleeding."

He grinned at her and nodded. "_Touche_! That's a word used to mean you scored a point. Fencing is about technique."

Nefertiri swept the flimsy blade back and forth several times while she grumbled about its inadequacies in taking an opponent's head.

"It's not about the final fatal blow woman… it's about reminding your body how to fight."

She did so… but she hated this "civilization"! Honestly! Where were the generals and raiders of the past? Had they all turned into bookish men like Raan? Or were they all dead and if so… who had killed them? She'd ask him later. Right now, she thought as she turned to attack him. She was more interested in proving that she hadn't forgotten all that he had ever taught her.

-----

They ate sweet confections and drank some strong bitter drink called coffee at a small food emporium… a café he called it… after her lessons. They'd stopped in here to warm themselves and to eat. It was a treat he'd said, because she'd done well earlier. True to form, he'd finished her off again and again at the practice facility… and yet she had begun to show improvement. Likely she'd made more than he thought. After all… one of his lessons was to never let anyone know how good she was. Nefertiri licked the chocolate from her fingers and eyed Raan across the table.

"Too bad we are not in my room," she said teasingly as she sucked her finger. "I could work on something else."

He rolled his eyes while she pouted. "Bloody hell," he said sitting up and covering his face with his hand. She turned, and smiled at the young woman headed in their direction.

"Adam? I thought that was you." The woman stared coldly at Nefertiri. "I'm Jillian… Adam's last lover." She offered her hand.

Nefertiri stared at the hand and caught the sarcastic tone of the woman's voice. She clearly wasn't being friendly.

"I am not… Adam's… lover," she finally said haltingly.

"Terri's from Egypt. I'm teaching her English and French," Raan or Adam replied. He didn't look happy to see this woman.

"You haven't returned any calls lately."

"I thought you were still Romania. When did you get back to Paris?"

Jillian sat and removed the woolen scarf from about her neck. "That's no excuse not to call me. Besides… my assignment has a small showing at a gallery here this week. I'm in town for a few days. You two really aren't involved?" she said pointing at both of them.

"Not in the slightest," Raan replied. Nefertiri realized he sounded very different in talking with Jillian. She realized he was playing a role for her… Adam whoever he was. Nefertiri began to wonder if he were playing a role for her as well. _Who are you really?_ She was three thousand years old. He was at least that and more.

"So you're moonlighting a bit?" Jillian asked.

"I'm working on some Egyptian history for my project and Terri's helping me," he shrugged. Nefertiri noticed he seemed smaller and more bookish since Jillian had seen him. It was interesting to watch him don the skin of this Adam person that Jillian knew him as… and she found it fascinating.

Jillian turned to Nefertiri. "Have you been to the history museum? They just opened a fascinating exhibit on Ancient Egypt. They have artifacts from Egypt on display there.

For the first time all day, Nefertiri was truly interested in something. "Artifacts from Egypt," she said slowly. "Shame on you Adam! You know I would want to see them."

"I was saving it as a surprise," he replied and she heard an undercurrent of reluctance in his words. Well… she had learned much at the side of her queen. She would get him to take her.

"Jill?" another woman called out and Jillian rose.

"My friend has a table. Call me later?" She leaned over and kissed Adam on the mouth. He kissed her back. Jillian straightened with a glow on her face. "Sorry about being rude. Later." She turned and left them.

Raan pulled some money from his pants pocket and tossed some on the table. "Let's go and don't argue." Nefertiri didn't argue.

Once on the street, he took her arm and waved for a taxi. When they got in… before he could say anything, she leaned forward to the driver. "National History Museum… and step on it." She'd heard that in several of the films she'd seen on the television she had in her room. It was evidently the way to talk to the drivers of these motorized chariots for hire. The taxi took off even before Raan managed to get the door shut.

"Bloody hell woman!"

"I wish to see Egypt," she told him.

"So I gather. I just hope you like what you see," he told her warily.

-----

She found the exhibit sad. All the bits and pieces of Egypt laid out in glass cases or lit by dim artificial light. It was heart wrenching. Raan vanished for a time to let her look at things in silence and with a warning not to "touch" anything. It was hard to see a bracelet or a necklace lying in a case and recall ones like it around her queen's wrist or neck, and not want to pick it up. But she did as she was told and looked only. The longer she looked, the sadder she became.

Feeling an immortal she turned to tell Raan she was ready to leave and saw him standing there with Marcus Constantine. Nefertiri's blood began to boil. "Liar!" she screamed suddenly. "Both of you! Betrayers!" She pushed past them and out onto the street. Looking both ways she took off running. Raan came after her and grabbed her. "I told you not on the street by yourself. You have no idea what's out here."

"You knew Marcus Constantine was alive," she told him, struggling to be free… struggling to claw his eyes out. "And to think I trusted you!"

"No… you should never trust me or did you forget lesson number one?"

She stopped struggling.

"Now then… yes I knew Marcus was alive. I know that he's wanted to meet you again since I released you. I wanted to wait. He would still be waiting had you not pulled that stunt in the taxi. But then I figured… why not. Let's get it over with. Come see your old lover and realize you have to grow beyond what you were in order to survive. Change is inevitable Nefertiri. We grow and change… or we die."

Nefertiri looked back at the museum and at a sad-faced Marcus. Nearby she saw a weaselly little man observing everything far too intently. "We are being watched," she said quietly.

"I know and I will take care of it," Raan replied. "Now come say hello to Marcus." He led her back up the steps where she met Marcus' smile of greeting by looking away. Raan stepped back and scratching at the side of his face moved to the other man's side. He spoke to him and the two of them vanished inside the museum.

"Hello Nefertiri," Marcus said. "I've tried to find you for two thousand years."

"Maybe I did not wish to be found," she replied haughtily. "You are a liar and a cheat. You have stolen the glory of Egypt for this place."

"No. Not stolen… borrowed with the permission of the Egyptian government and in order to teach about the glory of Egypt to those who were born long after her glory faded. Come… see it with me." He held out a hand. She took it… wondering why she did so. This time the exhibit, while still only bits and pieces of a world she recalled too clearly and that had vanished into the sands of time… seemed poignant.

Raan eventually joined them. She noticed fresh blood on the cuff of his shirt. Nefertiri smirked. He'd evidently taken care of the other man. Perhaps he wasn't really as modern or as civilized as he thought. The three of them quietly chatted in the exhibit and recalled the way things had been… and mourned the loss of what was.

-----

"You did very well today," Raan said as he removed her coat once they'd returned to her room.

She sighed and turned to gaze at him mournfully. "Did I please you?"

He smiled knowingly. "You did indeed. Constantine is no longer your enemy. You will also treat him with respect."

"And he did not mind you killing his friend?"

"That one was no true friend of immortals. He is part of a group that would kill us all."

"Then you were protecting all of us."

Raan nodded, tossed the coat across the arm of the sofa and sighed. "It's complicated."

She clasped her hands about his neck. "Even a slave is treated well when she pleases her master. How much more should a friend be treated well?"

"We've been over this," he said thickly.

"Love me so that I will not wish for Marcus or want to turn to him in my loneliness. Make me forget him," she pleased, letting tears sparkle in her eyes. Unlike the night before, she made no attempt to be aggressive or suggestive. She laid her cheek on his chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart and pressed against him. "I ache for you," she whispered. "Can you not give me a crumb to say you are pleased?"

He brushed her hair back from her face and lifted it to where he could regard her intently. "I hope I don't regret this," he said and then kissed her firmly.

Nefertiri hopped slightly so that her legs encircled his waist while his mouth devoured hers. He staggered and then bore her to the bed and ripped at her clothes. Inwardly she was elated. Men were still so easy to manipulate. Her queen had taught her well. She would bide her time. She had a feeling that Marcus Constantine wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. She would get to him soon… meanwhile… she would enjoy herself.


	49. Seasons in Time, part 3

**49**

_ **Seasons in Time, part 3** _

"Blast it!" James Horton snarled as he closed his cellphone.

"Problem?" Xavier remarked smoothly. Upon their return to Paris, he had tracked down one of his suppliers of golden caviar and was enjoying both the rare delicacy and Horton's evident ill humor.

"One of my people has vanished."

"Anyone I should know?"

Horton stared at the immortal, mentally thinking of him as minus a head rather than just a hand. Too bad he needed him for his little plan to destroy Duncan MacLeod to work. But as soon as MacLeod was dead… Xavier St. Cloud would follow him into hell. Horton smiled thinly. "I doubt it. Do you know Marcus Constantine?"

Xavier pondered the name. "Not really in the game anymore although he was said to be quite the warrior in his day. Not one I'd want to take on without a little help. Why?"

"I had one of my best people on him. Since he's not an active player… I had hopes last year of taking him out after I dealt Darius a killing blow. MacLeod saw that those plans were put on hold.

"About Darius?" Xavier asked. "You've never said conclusively if you killed him."

Horton chuckled. It was good to know something that Xavier didn't. Besides… he still wanted to be the one that finally destroyed that thing that had masqueraded as a priest. He had no plans to allow Xavier to have him. Of course he had to find him first. "He's gone isn't he? And MacLeod believes I did."

"Well… Darius was always such a strange immortal," Xavier murmured as he relished another taste of the caviar, recalling the first time he'd ever met the man.

_Paris 1230:_

Xavier struggled in vain against the king's men. He'd been caught red-handed, as it were, with a bag of silver flatware known to have come from household of the king's royal mistress. Next time, he swore as he struggled to be free, he'd steal something that couldn't be as easily traced. He tried to slow their progress and figure out the best way to escape. Five of the king's best men had hold of him, and seven more surrounded them. Perhaps it would be best to let them kill him. He could hang, die, and then when his body was tossed in the midden… he could revive to steal another day. Always the pragmatist, he went limp. He would have remained limp except he noticed the captain of the guard set up a log and motion him to be brought forward. The captain was leering with a sword in his hands.

Xavier began once more to struggle. Even if it was something minor… he couldn't bear the thought of losing any body part. After all… it might not grow back despite his immortality. Wounds healed… but would lost limbs re-grow?

He became even more agitated as three men held his head to the stump and the captain laughed raucously as he raised his pike. This was not good! It became even more dangerous as Xavier felt the oncoming arrival of another immortal.

"Hold!" the newcomer shouted in a voice that meant business. "What has this man done?"

"He has robbed the home of Clothilde of Arles. We have evidence!"

Xavier snarled and tried once more to get his head off the log. He needed to see the immortal!

"Let me see the evidence," the immortal voice commanded quietly. Xavier heard something in that tone… the tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed without question and yet gentleness pervaded his voice. "This is but silver and only a few hundred _livres_ at that," he chided them with a laugh. "Surely a man's life is worth more. Surely a man's soul is priceless."

"This man is not a Christian! He is a Moor," the captain complained.

"Did Christ not speak of his Father's house having many mansions? Who is to say this man's soul is worthless? Let he who is without sin cast the fatal blow."

Xavier heard the men around him shuffle and mumble. Then he was released. He sat up, rubbing his neck and glaring at the soldiers.

He saw the black robes over sandaled feet and then slowly raised his eyes to meet the startling blue ones peering out at him from beneath a hooded cloak. One hand pushed the hood back and the other hand reached forward to help him to his feet. "I'm Darius. You will come with me."

Not wanting to remain with the soldiers, Xavier nodded and followed the priest from the square. Through the twisted cobbled streets they made their way. Some of the citizens threw slop at him and screamed threats. But no one touched him. It was as if the sheer piety of the priest held them in check. He shamed them by his silence.

At last they entered a small stone church, newly built by the look of it. Unlike the soaring heights of the nearby _Cathedral des Notre Dame_, this one was plain and gave off a feeling of understated peace.

The priest sat next to a small brazier, stirring the coals and gestured for Xavier to do the same. Satisfied that they would have a bit of heat, he pulled out a loaf of black bread, tore off a piece to munch on and handed the rest to Xavier. "Eat my friend. We have much to talk of. Do you know what you are?"

Xavier began ripping off hunks of bread and cramming them into his mouth. It had been days since he'd last eaten. The priest chuckled and gathered a stone jar into his arms. From it he ladled an amber liquid. "This is honeyed mead. It can be a bit strong sometimes."

Xavier coughed. "It is very good. Who are you? What are you?"

The man smiled. "As I said. I'm Darius. As for what I am…" he stretched out his hands. "A humble servant of peace."

"You spoke like one accustomed to being obeyed."

"Ah… something from a previous life. I was general once. I led an army across the face of the known world."

Xavier laughed. "And now you… an immortal… are a priest?"

Darius shrugged. "I have to be something. So… how long have you been immortal?"

"Long enough to know how to use my sword. Those soldiers managed to get it from me. I'll have to get another one."

"You are safe here in the meantime. This is holy ground. No one will touch you here."

"Even you? I've heard tales of holy men who lure in the unwary of us and then take their heads under a guise of peace."

"Ah… yes. There are some who are less than charitable. Let us just say I know of them and steer my charges clear of them."

Xavier rubbed his hands together over the brazier as he stared about the plain and barren quarters of the priest. "I shall never consent to living like this. I like my comforts far too much."

"It's not a life most can adhere to… few mortals and even fewer of us immortals. But… I'm content. Now then… perhaps I can interest you in some light reading?"

"Just no Caesar… my last master had me read it until I had it memorized. I didn't care for it."

"Not a fan of the Romans… eh?"

"Just not a fan of my late mentor."

"He's dead?"

"Yes."

"You're certain?"

Xavier laughed lightly. "Very certain for I took his head."

The priest nodded. "It's always dangerous to teach the young ones. That's why so many die before reaching their potential."

"You are a very strange man Darius."

The priest grinned and shrugged. "So I've been told, my young friend. So I've been told."

----------

"Are you even paying attention to me?" James Horton snapped at his partner.

"Every word," Xavier replied. "Now then… why are we in Paris when MacLeod is in the States?"

"I have a target for you… remember. And it's one MacLeod knows. After that… we'll head to New York and work our way across the States where you will pick off some of his friends one… by… one."

"Why not go straight there?"

"Because I want my backstabbing brother-in-law to hear what is happening and to become worried enough that he feels the need to tell MacLeod. In the end… I will draw him back in with my soft words and tender lies. I will divide MacLeod from everyone he holds dear… friends, wife, Watcher… all will turn on him when they see him for what he truly he is."

"You worry me sometimes James. You sound rather like a madman."

Horton glared at his partner. "I have to see a doctor about an operation. I'll be back soon."

"Anyone I know?"

Horton could not contain his glee. "Not yet."

An hour later he was at the safe house and observing the bound and blindfolded form of the woman his men had kidnapped. He flipped through her file, noting that the specifications were not quite what he needed. Glancing at the surgeon he smirked. "Can you do it?" He flipped over the photo of Tessa Noel.

The doctor nodded, listing a number of things that would have to be done.

_Yes, yes_, thought Horton wearily. "But can you do it?"

"I can. It will take time and I cannot do anything about her voice."

"I can be anyone you want," the woman on the table writhed as if he were even interested in that sort of thing. "I'll worry about the voice… you get her under the knife. I want her healed and perfect within six weeks."

"Perfect," the doctor repeated with a nod. "My work is always perfect. My clients are most insistent on that."

"I dare say," Horton sighed. He handed the folder to his assistant and leaned over Lisa Halle. "Now then my dear, I have a little job for you… one that you will undoubtedly enjoy and one that I will pay you for. Add to that… you'll get a lovely new face that the authorities will not know. You do this for me… and you come out of this rich and with your new face.

"Who do you want me to be?" the psychopath asked.

Horton smiled. This was going to be perfect. With any luck, he'd not need her… but it was always wise to have a back-up plan in the pipeline… especially as he had such little faith in St. Cloud. The man would die soon enough… as soon as he was no longer useful. He'd never see it coming.

-----

Xavier exited the black limousine after telling the driver to wait. He brushed at the neck of his cashmere coat and took a moment to get a feel for the area. For a moment, he thought he'd felt an immortal in the area. But the longer he stood there, his eyes closed, he was certain it must have been someone passing in traffic.

Stately he mounted the stone steps and rang the bell. Doffing his hat at the young woman who answered the door, clearly a servant as she was modestly dressed and curtsied as he entered. He handed her his hat and slowly removed his gloves and coat, daring to touch and hold her chin for a moment before he dismissed her. "Enchanting," he said softly.

He turned and entered the parlor where soft music… Chopin he thought… played on a sound system. A scantily clad bottle-blonde strutted toward him in her white lingerie and took his arm.

"_Bonsoir monsieur_," she said and gestured toward the open bar.

Xavier removed his arm from hers and sat, crossing his legs. "_Champagne, s'il vous plait_." It was bubbly, chilled, and the bottle bore a reputable label. But then this was one of the better whorehouses in Paris.

Madame Pontefract clapped her hands as she entered and four beauties rose to pose before him. The blonde who'd met him at the door and served the champagne looked experienced. She moved her tongue over her lips and settled her hands on her hips. She moved them back and forth suggestively while he admired her long legs.

The redhead was a bit plump with firm, full breast… the kind a man could get lost in. She laughed a t touch too loudly as she ran her hands over her greatest feature and blew him a kiss.

The brunette was bored… quite literally. Lovely, long-legged, and lean, she'd likely made her money today and wasn't really interested in another customer.

The fourth girl had _cafe au lait_ skin… much like his and dark curls that framed her face. She looked down at the floor and then up at him almost fearfully.

Xavier smiled at her, delighted in her blush. He had never had an interest in virginal women… or even in a long relationship with one. He'd always purchased his women for an afternoon of pleasure and left them appropriately rewarded. He rose and touched her chin, lifting her face to meet his.

"This one will do, I think Madame."

"_Oui_, Colette… _monsieur_ will find her an exotic choice.

Madame clapped her hands and the other three moved back to other spots in the room. Xavier turned to her and agreed upon the customary price. Then he followed the young woman to her room.

Colette, if that was even her real name… not that it mattered to Xavier smiled at him once they were there.

"And what would monsieur like first," she said in a soft voice that seemed wrapped in velvet.

Xavier sat and crossed his legs. "_Monseiur_ would like to watch you strip first. I like my women naked before me."

"As you wish _monsieur_," she replied and slowly began to unfasten and remove the showy black lingerie. Once she was nude, he bade her turn slowly while his eyes traveled over every inch of her firm skin.

He motioned her to the bed as he rose and removed his own clothes. He crawled into the bed and covered her, kissing and tasting her… making love to her gently and slowly as if she were the love of his life. Memories of his brute master forcing himself on his female servants at all ours of the day and night flickered in his mind. Xavier banished those stray thoughts. A woman, like good caviar or good wine was to be savored and cherished… even one purchased for the afternoon.

He entered her at last, noticing she was moist and more than ready… breathless and moaning softly with little gasps of pleasure as he moved in her and thrust while still fondling her small pert breasts… her lips… Xavier made love to the whole woman… not just one part of her. Again and again he built to heights of passion and then slowed down… making it last… making it exquisite… making it the little death so written of by romantic poets. She trembled in his hands and clung to him with a desperation and need that he doubted she'd ever felt before. Finally… once he was certain he had pleasured her… he allowed his own passion to climax. He shuddered in the aftermath and then rolled onto his back.

For the next half hour, he lay there while she found a hundred ways to pleasure him. Finally he rose, and began to dress. He smiled at her blush as she sat naked on the bed, her nipples still erect as she rocked back and forth slightly… perhaps wishing he'd take her again.

He leaned over to her and kissed her lips gently, laying an extra gratuity on the bedside. "_Enchante_," he murmured and smiled as she looked at him with pleading eyes that begged him to take her with him and make her his own.

Descending the stairs, he settled up with Madame Pontefract and collected his coat, hat and gloves from the servant girl. Perhaps the next time he was in Paris, she would be ready for him. A light rain had fallen in the afternoon, and as the streetlamps were turned on and the glow of lights on the _Eiffel Tower_ and the _Arch de Triumph_ glowed on the horizon, the glare of the water pooled on the streets reflected the lights until all seemed lit as with fairy lights.

Xavier settled once more into the rear seat of the limousine and relaxed. His afternoon of pleasure would have to last him for some time to come, he feared. His mortal partner… so filled with hate… had no idea how pleasurable life could be. James Horton would undoubtedly die before he ever learned to live.


	50. Seasons in Time, part 4

**50**

_**Seasons in Time, part 4**_

Joe Dawson glanced up as Randi MacFarland knocked on his office door. "You got a minute Joe?" she asked.

"For you beautiful… anytime," the Watcher said leaning back in his office chair and letting his gaze travel appreciatively over the pert blonde's trim figure. Even doing research in the library, she was professionally dressed and always presented a pleasing picture. He supposed it was the news reporter in her… the one who always had to be ready to stand in front of a camera and look her best.

"I've been going over some of these chronicles and I've got some questions."

Joe nodded. He figured she would have. "Now who were you studying today?"

Randi paced back and forth in front of his desk. She was clearly too hyper to even contemplate sitting down.

"Well first of all was that immortal I saw MacLeod fight… Anthony Gallen. How can you people just let someone like that exist? I mean he's a murderer… a thief… an all-around bad person. Why not take him out?"

Joe sighed. "That's not what we do here. Who wins and who loses is between the immortals. Our job is just to watch and record their lives."

Randi whirled on him. "But don't we have an obligation to humanity? Shouldn't we winnow out those who are evil?"

"Randi… have a seat," Joe said with a patient, fatherly tone and a gesture of his hand. Once she'd sat and crossed her arms and legs, he continued. "My brother-in-law felt the same way. The problem is… how do we judge. What's evil and what's survival at one point in history is something else entirely further down the road. Here… let me show you a chronicle about an immortal who grew and changed over the years." Joe fumbled through a stack and pulled out the folder containing the highlights of Darius' life. He stared at it, sighing as he fingered the black label attached, which meant dead. "My brother-in-law killed this one. All he was or learned was lost." He handed the folder to Randi. "Read that and tell me what you think."

She gave him a quizzical look as she took the folder, glancing at the black file label and hefting in her hand. "He lived a long time," she said.

"Almost two thousand years. He was one of the oldest immortals left," Joe replied.

Randi's eyes grew wide. "Two… _thousand_ years,' she said in a near whisper. Pulling the folder to her she opened it and glanced at the cover sheet. "A barbarian general who became a Roman Catholic priest," she murmured almost reverently.

"Read it Randi," Joe urged her. "You'll find it mesmerizing. I met him once… as true a man of peace as I ever knew. He shouldn't have died."

Randi nodded as she stood, hugging the folder to her. "I'll be back later, Joe."

Joe winked. "I'm sure you will." He watched her leave with a deep sigh, recalling the one time he had attended Easter services with his mentor in the Watchers, Ian Bancroft… Darius' Watcher. Himself a devout Roman Catholic, Joe had wondered how an immortal would see the tenets and creeds of the "one true faith" as his teachers… nuns… had once taught him. Yet every word Darius had spoken that long ago day had made Joe realize that here was a man who deserved to live. Here was man whose long life had helped him look deeply into the face of God and see the truth of the message.

Joe shook his head. "Damn you James Horton," he mumbled angrily. "Damn you to hell! Darius didn't deserve to die. You should never have interfered."

Several hours later, Randi sat back in her chair at the library table and pressed the heel of her palms to her eyes. While this file had been translated into English, it wasn't typed. Most of the entries were in a graceful longhand that made randi think of her great-great grandfather's letters to his wife during the American Civil War. Beautiful and graceful, the handwriting was nevertheless hard to read.

"Hard day's work?"

Randi glanced up, her perpetual smile firmly fixed on her face. "Just some light reading," she said with a touch of humor to Mike Barrett. The man was built! A touch older than she normally liked, and abit balding, but his tweed sports jacket failed to hide the muscles. The man moved like a soldier… an agent… indeed… rather like Duncan MacLeod. She closed the file.

"Darius huh?" Mike acknowledged. "I always liked him. Never met him but I've heard even some bad immortals talk about him with an almost reverent tone."

"Really? In a culture where they fight to survive and 'there can be only one' how was it they respected a man who gave it all up?"

"He changed their lives. He changed the way a lot of them thought about the game. Even some of the ones we currently look at as bad ones. Fifteen hundred years ago, the Watchers might have had a reason to kill Darius. He was brutal and ruthless… but so were most of them. It was a barbaric time and might made right. Most of them came out of a culture that said kill or be killed. That Darius rose above that… that he found a greater truth and then was able to survive against all odds for as long as he did… teaching that truth made him extraordinary."

Randi nodded. "The more I read and study the more confusing it all gets. How one immortal can impact so many others! They are all so intertwined and if what Joe says… Darius is only a prime example of how some of them changed the longer that they lived."

Mike leaned on the table next to her. She could smell his aftershave, something light that had been triggered by exertion. She breathed it in as she tucked a lock of blonde hair behind one ear and leaned thoughtfully on one elbow. "Well Darius was an exception rather than the rule," Mike explained further. "Most immortals are the same whether they fifty years old or five hundred years old. They are what they were in their first life. Take Joe's assignment Duncan MacLeod. He was the son of a clan chieftain and raised to…"

"To take care of the widows and orphans and help little old ladies across the cow pasture. I've got it." She tapped a lacquered nail on the folder. "But this man was a warrior who left the battlefield behind."

Mike shrugged. "There are those that say he changed when he killed that immortal at the gates of Paris in 410. Legends speak of an immortal so old that no one knew his name or his beginnings. We call him simply… the Ancient."

"And what do you say?" Randi asked coyly.

Mike shrugged as he stood erect. "I say he discovered something that changed his perception of the game. Call it a light quickening or insightful study on holy ground… but something changed him. I'd have loved to have sat down with him."

Randi nodded. Glancing at her watch she gasped. "Look at the time! I've got to get going. I may be on leave from the station but my cat has to be fed on time."

Mike chuckled. "And she has cats, too." His eyes twinkled merrily.

"Well cat actually. Miss Marple. She's a lovely oyster gray long-hair. Lots of personality."

"Do I detect an Agatha Christie fan?" Mike asked wryly.

"Well," Randi blushed. "I always did like a good mystery. As an investigative reporter, it stands me in good stead. Or did until I saw Duncan MacLeod and Anthony Gallen fighting with swords." She stood. "That's why Dawson gave me Darius' file to read. I finished reading Gallen's and I couldn't figure out why we let someone like that live."

"Ah… he wanted you to understand why we don't kill them… why we don't interfere."

Randi nodded. "I guess I better return this," she said, picking up the file. She held it to her chest as she backed away from him. "Thanks. I really like talking to you."

Mike chuckled and waved her off. After she vanished around a corner, he sobered. He'd have to inform Shapiro that Randi was interested in why Watchers didn't just kill the immortals. He shook his head. This blasted assignment was becoming harder… and harder.

-----

Dawn found Mike Barrett lying naked in Randi MacFarland's bed. She curled up next to him, the thin sheet wrapped about her. He stared at the ceiling and at the fan slowly revolving in the dark shadows, pushing the heated air down. Rubbing his forehead he tried to think how he'd ended up here. Had it been because he'd stopped to talk to her at the library? Was it because he'd waited for her to return for her jacket? Or was it his asking her if she liked Chinese? He'd offered to pick some up so that they could continue their discussion. "Call it extra-curricular insight," he'd winked at her. Maybe it was the plum wine she'd served with dinner.

Whatever it was, he was once more treading on dangerous ground. He liked her. He hadn't at first when Dawson first brought her in. He'd thought she would be trouble. She was… but not the type he'd thought. Instead of wanting to tell the public what she'd learned, she was enthralled by the immortals and wanted to know more. But with that reporter's questioning and instincts for digging at the truth, she was pushing into areas she shouldn't. Why didn't Dawson send her to Europe and the Tribunal?

Carefully Barrett extricated himself from Randi's sleepy embrace and swung his legs over onto the floor. He felt the cold of the hardwood floor and flexed his bare toes on the surface. Then he rose to stroll to the window. Quietly opening the blinds he stared out into the darkness of the night. Snow drifted in the circles of lamplight about the streetlamps. It spit and moved in circles about the wind. Likely it would melt by mid-morning if there were any accumulation. Somehow Mike didn't think it would accumulate.

The cold landscape seemed to mirror his own thoughts. Ice encased his heart. He'd made love to Randi… but he didn't dare love her. He might yet be told to kill her. While he'd prevented her from leaving the Watcher estate with notes, he hadn't stopped her completely from writing things down. While she'd chatted from the kitchen as she'd readied plates for dinner, he'd seen the steno pad on the table. She evidently had a good memory. He really ought to destroy that before he left and wondered why he hesitated.

Randi's arms slid around him. She was still wrapped in the sheet, a bit shy and coy still. "The bed got cold," she whispered as she kissed his back.

Mike donned a teasing expression as he leaned back against her, feeling her form against his back… warming it. "So I'm a bed warmer."

She laughed. And there was something of the spoiled little girl in that laugh. "Silly boy… of course you are."

Mike turned and pulled her into an embrace before him. He stared soberly at her trusting eyes and then lowered his mouth to hers, gently kissing her and letting her increase the pressure and urgency of the kiss. Suddenly he lifted her against him and opened his mouth wider as he pressed against her. She groaned. Her hands moved to around his neck and the sheet gradually fell to the floor. Her legs encircled his hips as she ground against him.

He lifted her until he entered her, staggering slightly. He hadn't made love like this in years. She pulled back and clasped his neck as she rode up and down on him. Her eyes were wide and bright, Her nipples hard and erect. Her mouth opened as she gasped again and again.

Her movements excited him. Mike leaned an arm against the wall for leverage while he likewise began to move with her.

"Harder!" she hissed.

With a laugh he slammed her back against the wall and gave into his own need and urgency. Randi yelled and her nails dug into his shoulders. "Oh God!" she shouted.

He shuddered in his release and then collapsed against her. Slowly she slipped down the wall until she stood on the floor. "Wow," she panted and lay her cheek against his chest.

"Yeah… wow," he laughed. "You really could drive a man to drink."

She laughed and sighed deeply.

He lifted her into his arms and turned to lay her on the bed. He hovered over her, kissing her slowly and deeply while his hand moved to between her legs.

"Umm… that's nice," Randi murmured almost half asleep and smiling in pleasure.

Mike Barrett sobered and wondered what the hell he was doing. Then he closed his mind to his doubts and fears as he lowered his head to kiss her again.

-----

The telephone's ringing woke Joe Dawson from a sound and dreamless sleep. He stared into the darkness of his room for several moments and then turned to fumble for both the lamp and the pnoe's receiver. "Yeah… Dawson here."

"Joseph. I'm sorry. I forgot the time differential."

"Why is this? James? Is that you?"

"Yes Joseph, it's James. I'm in Paris."

Joe rubbed the side of his face. "What do you want?"

"I need to see Lynn. Can you arrange it?"

"Hell James. You want to see her… call her and arrange to meet her somewhere. Just don't come here. You're a dead man if you do."

"Only if Duncan MacLeod sees me. You won't tell him will you Joseph. After all… there's our Watcher oath to consider."

"Amazing how you seem to pick and choose what part of the oath to accept and what part to break," Joe snapped back at his brother-in-law.

"As do we all. I didn't call to argue with you. I'm flying into Seacouver tonight. I need to see you… talk to you… I need to have you act as a go-between Lynn and myself. She won't take my calls."

"With good reason. You killed her fiancé!"

"That was an unfortunate accident," Horton protested. "Please Joseph… if you had a daughter… what would you do to mend a breach?"

Joe remained silent as he thought of Amy. He had a daughter… a daughter he couldn't claim; a daughter who only knew of him as a family friend. Joe closed his eyes and felt the lurch in his heart. Emptiness crept over him. "I'd try my damnedest to be the man she wanted me to do," he finally replied with a hollow voice."

"Excellent."

"Listen… don't come into town and do not come to the estate."

"Naturally."

"The boat… that cruiser we have? It's not being used. From the airport take a taxi to it. It's moored at the harbor, slip number…"

"I can find it. I okayed the funding to buy it. I even used it several times. Excellent choice Joseph."

"Just call me when you're there," Joe snapped. He had the oddest feeling that this might be a major mistake… but if Horton was insistent on coming back, Joe had to try to protect MacLeod. Hell he had to protect them both. They'd kill each other!

"Will do, and thank you Joseph."

The click on the line told him Horton had hung up. Joe held the receiver against his chest. He had damage control to do tomorrow. Then he'd meet Horton tomorrow night and see if he could work something out that would let Lynn and her father reconcile. Again he thought of Amy and sighed. Rolling over, Joe hung up the phone and turned off the light. He doubted he'd get any more sleep.

-----


	51. Unholy Alliance, part 1a

**51**

Unholy Alliance, part 1.1

Still groggy from his interrupted night's sleep, Joe Dawson walked wearily into the main research room at Watcher Headquarters. Something was going on.

Randi MacFarland, standing just a shade too close to Mike Barrett, glanced up at the coordinator and flashed that brilliant reporter smile… the one that always seemed to mean she was onto something and that her mind was making connections and seeing patterns and conspiracies that so far had eluded all others. "Morning Joe!" she beamed. "We got a live one."

Barrett shook his head. "Or rather… two dead ones."

For a moment, Joe felt dizzy. The blood seemed to rush from his head while his heart seemed to thud loudly in his chest. Finally, despite his unease, he barked, "Who? Where?"

Barrett stepped to his side, taking a gentle hold of Joe's arm. He looked worried. "Relax Joe. Paris and New York."

Joe managed to nod. "Then why the interest?"

Randi tossed her blonde mane. "It's the manner of the deaths."

Joe glanced from one to the other and then at the others. "What's so damned unusual about these people cutting each other's heads off?"

Barrett and Randi looked at one another and then at Joe. They both nodded. The other Watchers in the area slowly drifted away.

"They were shot first," Barrett muttered.

"By mortals working in tandem with the immortal," Randi finished.

"Who's the immortal?" Joe demanded.

"We don't know yet. Our people showed up right after it happened. Anton Legris in Paris was first, followed by Jason Talbot in New York about eight hours later." Mike folded his arms across his chest. His military training evident in his stance and posture.

"And our people are sure they were working together?"

Barrett nodded crisply. "Our people arrived even as the van containing immortal and mortals drove off. 

"In both cases it was Talbot's or Legris' Watcher. They followed protocol and stayed with the body. Neither was close enough to see who the immortal was. After all, neither of these men were major players. The fights came out of nowhere. They were targeted without reason," finished Randi.

Joe wearily collapsed in a sturdy chair. He rubbed his forehead. Being in charge of an entire area was beginning to wear on him. He longed for the days when he could just watch Duncan MacLeod. At the thought of MacLeod, Joe realized he needed to make another unauthorized visit to the Highlander. He had to be warned!

"Joe," Randi said, leaning over him in concern. "You don't look well."

"I had a bad night… and now this," admitted Joe. "I may go home. Where's Lawton?" He'd let the assistant coordinator take over this mess while he slipped away to MacLeod's place. In fact, part of him considered turning all of this over to Lawton and bowing out. Mortals with guns working with immortals? No! It wasn't right! It was against all of the rules! It might mean the end of them all.

He struggled to his feet. "I think I'm taking the day off. One of you call me later if you find out anything more."

"Sure Joe," nodded Mike.

Randi helped him to his feet. She kissed his cheek. "Take care of yourself," she whispered to him. She seemed tearful and there was a catch in her voice.

He gave her a weak smile and then shuffled out the door. Standing in the early morning sunshine, Joe wished again for the anonymity of fieldwork. He didn't want to be in charge. In some ways, it was like when the Watchers had tried to enforce his being a researcher. He hadn't settled for it then. He would not settle for it now. With a sturdier step, Joe headed for his car.

-----

Shifting an armful of fresh-cut flowers from one arm to the other, Angie Burke unlocked the front door of **MacLeod & Noel Antiques**. Once inside she turned the placard to '_**Open**_" and hunted up a vase for the flowers. The yellow chrysanthemums would add a touch of warmth in the showroom. 

In the rear of the establishment, she could hear the voices of Tessa and Mac, evidently in conversation over breakfast.

"You don't have to go with me," Tessa said. "I'm perfectly capable of touring a museum alone. And I'll be making sketches. You loathe standing around while I'm sketching."

"But I love standing around looking at you," teased Duncan.

Angie sighed as she positioned the vase of flowers on a breakfront. MacLeod was _sooo_ romantic. She wondered if she'd ever have someone like that.

The bell over the door rang as Richie Ryan entered. "Hey Ang!" he said with a wide grin.

Angie snorted. "Hey yourself." She picked up a feather duster and pretended to concentrate on the non-existent dust.

"Listen, I know it's been a few days, but mid-terms had me swamped." Richie shifted from one foot to the other as he spoke.

Angie gave him a jaded glance. "Aren't mid-terms in two weeks?"

"Uh… yeah… but… uh… I have to study, ya know." Richie blushed.

Angie continued her dusting. A small smile teased playfully about her lips. From the rear of the shop she heard the playful banter of the MacLeods continue.

"Not to mention I could give you insight into some of the exhibit," Duncan continued to tease Tassa.

"Oh?" Tessa replied. "I suppose you were there? Duncan really, it's just a proposal for a new ad campaign."

Duncan laughed and Angie could visualize him taking Tessa into his arms. "All the more reason to let me help you give it that personal touch." Angie's smile widened. He was kissing her. Damn she loved a good romance. These two were better than books or romantic films.

"Angie?"

She turned back to Richie who had a strange look in his eyes. "We are all right, aren't we? I swear I'm not avoiding you. But Tessa is paying for my classes and I don't want to disappoint her."

_Kiss me quick_, she thought. But he didn't; just kept hemming and hawing before her. Just when it looked like he might act on her mental wish, the MacLeods entered. Richie immediately focused his attention on them.

"Morning guys!"

"Don't you have class this morning?" Tessa asked. She laid the coat she was carrying on a desk and rifled through her bag checking to see she had paper, pens, pencils, pastels, whatever she might need for her project. Duncan leaned against the doorjamb, his arms folded as he watched the others in amusement.

"Yeah. But this is lab time and I'm all caught up. I just stopped by to…" Richie's voice trailed away. He looked down at the floor as if evading Tessa's peering glance. She sighed, closed the satchel of art supplies and stepped closer to Richie.

"You can do this. You're smart. You've a great head on your shoulders. You just need to…"

"… apply myself. Yeah. I've heard it before," Richie said shrugging off her touch. "I want to do this Tessa… it's just that I'm bored out of my skull." He looked at MacLeod. "I'd much rather be helping you with…" He glanced at Angie and then back to MacLeod. "You know."

Duncan shook his head. "There will be time enough for that later. Maybe college isn't to your liking, but Richie… it will give you skills and knowledge you will find useful in life. It's never too late to learn.… but in your case… you don't have forever. Tessa and I are only thinking of your future. If you want to drop out… go ahead. But you really should try to finish the semester."

Richie huffed a bit and then nodded his head. "Yeah… pep talk. I know what I have to do… I know I want this… but it's not as easy as it seems. The classes are fun… it's the papers that I have problems with."

"Come over any night, Richie and I will help you with the papers. I won't write them, but I can help you research… be a sounding board… proofread it," Tessa replied with a smile and kissed the young man's cheek. He blushed again. Angie could almost hear his thoughts. _Anything for you Tess!_ She didn't blame him for feeling that way. Tessa Noel was one of the good guys, and she clearly felt motherly toward Richie.

Tessa winked at Angie. "I love the flowers. Yellow is perfect for a gray, cloudy day." Angie beamed back at her.

"Now I'm off to the museum," Tessa said as she blew Mac a kiss. She clasped Richie's arm. "Walk out with me."

"And then go to class," mumbled the redhead. He eyed Angie. "I'll call you later. I promise."

"Yeah! Yeah!" Angie laughed as she waved the feather duster at him. "Like I haven't heard that before."

And then they were gone. She eyed MacLeod. "You really letting her go off by herself?"

"She's an adult and she'll work faster on her own. Meanwhile… I'm off for my morning run and will stop off at the _dojo_. Do you need anything?"

Angie shook her head; the red-brown curls moved in wild profusion. "I'm fine, boss. I'll hold the fort."

Duncan smiled at her and left. She could see him stretching on the brick walkway in front of the store. Then he took off running. Angie turned on the CD player so she could dance to the music as she dusted. She had the place to herself.

Half and hour later she glanced up at the customer who entered, recognizing the elderly gentleman she'd seen here before.

"Hi… can I help you?"

"MacLeod here?"

"Not this morning. Is there anything I can help you with?"

He hedged about, leaning on his cane. "I guess I missed him. Is he headed to the _dojo_?"

For a moment, Angie thought about playing dumb… but this guy was a friend of the MacLeods she thought. "I think so. Do you want me to call and see if he's arrived there?"

The man shook his head. "Naw… I'll catch up with him." He turned and left. Angie finished the dusting and began to unpack yesterday's shipment, carefully entering everything into inventory. She glanced up again as another customer arrived. This time an elegantly-dressed black man in fine wool coat and hat smiled at her. One hand was missing. Instead he wore a prosthetic hook. Angie shivered, but then smiled at him.

"May I help you?"

"Perhaps I can help you," he said in a lovely, lilting voice that purred like a contented cat. He stepped closer and took one of her hands in his one hand and then bent to kiss it. Angie thrilled at the attention.

"I have a number of antiquities I'm hoping to sell to a good buyer. I'm told that this is the premier antique store in this area. Are you MacLeod or Noel?"

"Sorry. Neither. They're both out this morning, although I expect them back shortly." Angie hoped her face wasn't as red as it felt. "Would you care to wait?"

"No… here's my card. Please tell them I'm in town." He handed her a card with a name and number on it, tipped his hat to her and was gone.

Angie relaxed against the breakfront and waved the card in front of her face. "Now _he_ was interesting," she sighed, wondering if she could make Richie just a little bit jealous. 

-----

"Well?" Horton snapped as Xavier returned to the limo.

"Patience Horton." Xavier brushed at the sleeve of his cashmere coat and smiled self-indulgently.

"Will it work?"

"Not there. In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Horton… there are priceless antiquities there. Items that should not be destroyed. No… I don't think shooting up the antique store is a good idea."

"I want MacLeod to watch Tessa die," seethed the former Watcher. "I want him to hold her bleeding, dead body in his arms and wish for death as you behead him."

"What about this _dojo_ he has bought?" St. Cloud suggested.

Horton shook his head. "The lovely Mrs. MacLeod doesn't go there from what my people tell me. The boy Ryan lives over the _dojo_ though. Somehow I don't think his death would have the same effect."

St. Cloud smiled as the limo steered through traffic. There was no way Horton could know about the boy's pre-immortal status… that it lay within the young man like a gift waiting to be opened. His death would only galvanize MacLeod to protect the boy. On the other hand… if Xavier could turn the boy into his student. Be there for him. Help him to see the error of his ways and return to a life of crime. How much worse that would be for MacLeod. He'd feel bereft and betrayed at Ryan's change of heart. But would Horton let him acquire the boy? The man, like most mortals, felt the passing of time and wanted something done now! Immediately. He had no sense of finesse. "No… perhaps not," Xavier finally replied.

The mobile phone in the limo's back seat rang. Horton answered it, muttered a few incoherent replies and hung up. "The lovely Mrs. MacLeod is alone at the Northwest Passage exhibit. I wonder what MacLeod would do if she just vanished."

Xavier smiled. "He'd lose his head."

Horton snorted. "He might at that. He'd be running around like Chicken Little because his sky fell in." Horton settled comfortably back in the seat. "I told Davis to acquire her for us."

"And your brother-in-law?" Xavier asked.

"Leave him to me. By the time I'm done…"

"We're done," corrected Xavier.

Horton nodded. "… _we're_ done… MacLeod will have no one left. We'll have stripped him of all of his human contacts and he will trust no one. He will welcome death."

Xavier rather doubted that, but he said nothing. After all… while he welcomed the help while getting back into fighting form, what he wanted most of all was to fight Duncan MacLeod one-on-one in the truest sense of the Game. Everything else was simply… distractions.


	52. Unholy Alliance, part 1b

**52**

Unholy Alliance, part 1.2

Tessa focused on blending the pastels just so to indicate the Northern Lights. She could just imagine the sight of the phenomena high in the sky above the ice-locked schooner. She could feel both their wonder and their desperation. Duncan had been on that voyage. He'd survived and brought all but a few back to civilization… and then vanished. She smiled. Had he come with her… he would have insisted on giving her details of what had happened rather than let her use the artifacts and the bare-bones of history to let someone be able to feel and imagine that time by just looking at the artwork. He understood so much, but sometimes he was too much of the real world to be able to see the romance of history as she saw it. Putting away the pink and yellow, she picked up the black pastel to pencil in his form on the ice. She'd know it was him… even if no one else did. Humming under her breath as she sketched she became lost in memory of snow and ice. The sunlight moved unnoticed over the artifact of the ship, and in the shadows to one side of the exhibit, a man hunched into a sailor's dark pea coat watched her intently. A small wooden toothpick shifted about on his lips as he chewed on the end of it and considered his next move.

Slowly the exhibit emptied. Finally Tessa finished her sketch and stowed her belongings. The man prepared to move. As she headed for the side door that opened onto the lot where she'd parked her car, he smiled and sped up. This might work very well after all.

-----

The warm-up and jog had been good for Duncan. It made him feel more alive and more ready for whatever the Game might throw at him. True he'd wasted almost a dozen years in a quiet fog of romantic bliss that had always seemed too good to be true. But actually being married to Tessa had made him far more aware of the danger she was in as his wife. Too many immortals had come to Seacouver in the last year and a half… and most of them had not been friendly ones.

As his body became leaner and more muscled, Tessa had murmured approval during their love-making. The dreams of past months, usually settling on his loss of her had finally begun to fade. He knew he would bury her one day… but God-willing… it would not be for some time. He recalled Connor telling him of living out a long life with his first wife Heather. She had died old and gray in his kinsman's arms. That was how Duncan wanted to lose Tessa. "Give me the next fifty years or so with her… and I can let her go and die a happy man," he whispered to the wind. Then he stepped into the moist, stale atmosphere of the _dojo_.

Sweaty men lifted weights and wrestled in slow ponderous moves on the mats. To one side, Charlie DeSalvo called out encouragement. After grabbing a towel to wipe his face and waving to Charlie, he headed into the office to glance at the books. Charlie was right… this place was slowly becoming a money pit. But Duncan didn't care about making money with it… he just wanted to be able to have this place as a refuge in case someone like Grayson came to town. He didn't want the immortals showing up at the antique store or in Tessa's workshop. He wanted them to come here… where he could welcome them or deal with them. Besides, the fixtures in this place didn't cost several thousand dollars. He grabbed a bottle of water from the small frig in the office, opened it and drank as he cooled down.

"Doesn't look good, does it?"

Duncan glanced up to see a morose Charlie in the doorway.

"Let me worry about finances. You just manage the place," he said with an easy affability for the man that he was beginning to call friend. "Any calls?"

"Nary a one. Maybe it will be a quiet week without someone ending up dead." Charlie slapped the doorjamb as he headed back to the mats. "Quinlan… Keep your left up." 

Duncan chuckled, and turned his attention to the accounts. When a shadow crossed his desk, he muttered aloud, "I said I'd deal with it Charlie."

"Not my problem," answered a sober-sounding Joe Dawson.

Duncan looked up at the elderly Watcher and sat back in the desk chair, hearing its comfortable squeak. "Dawson… what are you doing here?" Every time he saw the Watcher something was terribly wrong. Worse, Duncan felt that Dawson sometimes looked at him as his private vigilante to fix whatever was wrong in the immortal world.

Dawson took a deep breath. Duncan noticed that he'd shut the office door and he could see Charlie's worried expression in the outer room. "It's this way MacLeod… there've been several immortal deaths in the past few days."

Duncan shrugged. "It's the way it is, Dawson. Nothing new in that."

"Anton Legris in Paris and a few hours later a lawyer in New York… Jason Talbot. I know you knew Legris."

Duncan nodded. The quiet gardener had never been one suited for immortality and the game. Duncan couldn't recall the last time the man had faced another immortal. He liked him… but his death didn't surprise him. "And this concerns me how?"

"Someone broke the rules. We're still gathering data… but these men were shot by mortals and then beheaded by an immortal." Dawson leaned his hands on the desk. He looked tired and slightly frantic. "It's wrong! It's not the way the Game is played." His voice rose slightly and then he shook his head. "It's just not right," he went on quietly.

Outside in the workout space, the clang of weights and the voices of the patrons continued. Duncan waited a moment. "Involving mortals… using them in the game. No… it's not right. But this isn't your concern. It's ours. And we do police our own. Who was it? This immortal who broke the rules."

"We don't know yet. I don't even know if he's headed this way… but there is something about this that just turns my stomach." Dawson's pale complexion gave testament to just how upset he was. "Listen MacLeod… you be careful."

Duncan nodded while he quietly watched the Watcher leave. He, too, had a very bad feeling about this. If mortals were now a part of the game… used by immortal, things could get very ugly indeed. He had calls to make. Fitzcairn for one if the number he had for him in London was still good. Connor if Rachel knew where he was. Duncan leaned over the desk while his mind whirled. 

He could see Connor teaching him the rules. 

"Most importantly," the elder Highlander was saying. "We do not involve mortals in our game. It is not for them. A fight must be suspended if mortals are present. Even the most vile immortals know that one."

"Why?" Duncan had asked in his heavy brogue.

"Witch hunts," Connor replied in a haunted voice. "They'd kill us, rack us, draw and quarter us and not only us but anyone they thought might be immortal. We'd be seen as witches and hunted across the land. We'd have no safe place to call home."

Duncan nodded. In this modern age, they might not be thought of as witches… but they'd be hunted, kept for study by scientists trying to determine the seed of their immortality. Some might be tortured as they were studied to see how fast someone could return from death. Duncan shuddered recalling his misadventure last year with the creepy emergency room doctor. No one should know about them or be a party to their activities. Immortals should remain unknown and on the fringes of society. He rubbed his face. Tessa! What he done bringing her into this. And the Watchers? He recalled the faction led by James Horton and how much trouble that had been. He might not be able to do anything about the Watchers who only watched and recorded… but these other mortals that immortals brought into the game? Duncan had every right to kill them before they could kill again. The nearly empty water bottle in one hand crushed in the spasm of his fist. He jolted aware when the water splashed onto his hand. Wearily he mopped it up with the towel, tossed the bottle, and headed back to the store. He needed a car and he needed to get to Tessa.

He swung open the office door with a bang. "Charlie! I need your car. Better yet, I need you to drive me somewhere."

"Wha…? Sure MacLeod. Take the car. We shouldn't both just leave." He gestured at the men around him."

Duncan shook his head. "_Dojo's_ closed!" he barked. "Now Charlie! I may need your help." Time was ticking away with the thudding of his heart. "Now Charlie!"

Charlie threw up his hands, grabbed his jacket and keys. Tossed one set to one of the men. "Lock up for me."

Worry lent wings to Duncan's feet as they pounded the pavement to Charlie's car.

-----

In the nearly empty parking lot of the museum, Tessa halted a few feet away from her car and muttered under her breath. A tire was flat. "Dammit!" she said as she stomped one foot. Her eyes blazed in fury. She glanced around the lot, hoping to catch the eye of someone. She seemed to be out of luck. Tossing her things into the backseat of the convertible, she debated calling Duncan from a payphone or changing the tire herself. Changing it herself won out. Duncan would never let her live it down if she had to pull the "helpless woman" routine. Rounding to the rear of the car, she opened the trunk and stared at the spare tire and the parts of what she knew was the "jack". "Now how does that go together?" With a snort which was not quite lady-like, she began to loosen the nuts holding the jack into place in the trunk. She managed one of them but the second one seemed rusted. She gritted her teeth and applied more pressure. There was a sudden snap and burning pain raced up her arm. She pulled her hand back and held it while tears sprang to her eyes. She'd snapped off a nail down to the quick. She blew on the affected finger, not quite certain what else she could do.

A black sedan pulled up beside her and a man leaned out the window. "You need some help?"

Tessa held her breath and looked around the lot. They were the only two there. Finally she gave him a thin smile. "I seem to have a flat time."

"Well get in and I'll run you to get some help."

Tessa shook her head. "I just need help with this nut. I think I can manage once I get it loose."

The man chuckled, nodded and turned off his ignition. Getting out of his car he offered his hand. "I'm Rick Davis by the way."

Tessa widened her smile. "Thank you for stopping."

"No problem." Davis seemed far more interested in the "jack" and the spare tire than in thanks.

Tessa stepped back out of his way. "That one nut seems rusted.…Oh." She hushed as he grunted and unscrewed it. "Helpless woman," she muttered, more to herself than to him. 

"Not rusted… just on really tight. I guess men forget to keep them loose on a woman's car." He handed her the pieces of the "jack" while he lifted out the tire and set it on the ground, rolling it to and fro. "Not much air in this one. You should go straight to a service station to get it filled."

"Yes, thank you," Tessa said. She maneuvered the two pieces of the "jack" this way and that as she tried to figure out the assembly.

"Let me," Davis chuckled. "I'll have you on your way in a jiffy." He took the pieces from Tessa's un-protesting hands and expertly and quickly assembled it and then began lifting the car with powerful strokes. Then he loosened the lug nuts and pulled off the flat. He rolled that to the rear of the convertible and tossed it into the trunk.

By this time, Tessa had relaxed around him. He seemed nothing more than a Good Samaritan. "My husband will likely sign me up for tire-changing class when he hears about this," she chatted easily. "I really do know how to change a tire… it's just that it's been several years and I have to stop and think about what I'm doing."

Davis nodded. He made no move to put the other tire on. Instead, he stepped closer to her. "My wife's the same way. So was my mother.

Tessa stepped back half a step. "I guess I can get the other one." She made to go around him. He grabbed her arm, startling her.

"Sorry. No reason for you to get your hands dirty." He stared at her, his hand lingering on her arm. Tessa pulled it free and backed away from him. He smiled, but there was something predatory in eyes.

Just then she heard tires squealing and looked up to see a car entering the parking lot and headed right for them. Before it even stopped, Duncan jumped out of it and came racing to her side.

"Are you all right?" he said softly taking her hands in his. He glared at the other man. 

"Duncan… this is Rick Davis," Tessa explained. "He offered to help me with the flat."

"Flat?" Duncan said suspiciously. He leaned into the trunk to examine it. His fingers found the deep slash. Someone had cut the tire. He turned swiftly and grabbed Davis by his jacket, backing him up to his car. "It's been sliced."

"Duncan!" Tessa cried out. 

At the same time, Charlie DeSalvo emerged from his car and said, "MacLeod!" He slammed the car door and swiftly moved to Duncan's side. "Hey man. He was just helping her. I know this guy. We were in the _**SEALs**_ together."

"Yeah," Davis muttered, his eyes shifted to Charlie. "Some friend you got DeSalvo. I help his missus and he tries to take my head."

"He was worried about her. Now apologise MacLeod."

Duncan's dark brown eyes seemed almost black with fury. His normal olive tone seemed deeper… almost red-bronze. "Sorry," he muttered, but he clearly didn't mean it.

Davis shrugged his jacket and snorted. "Serves me right for playing good guy. Next time I drive on by." He saluted Tessa. "Nice to meet you ma'am," and then turned to enter his car, swiftly starting the engine and driving off in a hurry.

"Man you are certifiable!" Charlie said. "You think everyone's out to get you or yours. You don't trust anyone… even me. Makes me wonder why I bother!"

"Sorry Charlie. He startled me," Duncan replied.

"To be honest," Tessa interjected. "He was a little too hands on. I think he hoped to pick me up."

Duncan pulled her close and kissed her forehead. "I'll get the tire fixed. Thanks Charlie."

"Don't mention it. I'll go back to work now. Good thing I came along. You might have ended up being arrested for assault."

Duncan nodded curtly. He didn't think that would have happened. Indeed, if Charlie hadn't been around who knows what would have happened. He gazed around the empty lot, wondering if they were being watched. Then he crouched next to the tire to finish changing it.

Five minutes later they pulled out of the lot and headed to a service station. Ten minuets after that, he was driving a quiet Tessa home. When they pulled in behind the antique store he turned to her. "I'm thinking of having Charlie teach you some self-defense."

"We've been over this Mac. I'm not interested."

"You may not be interested… but you're my wife. That makes you a legitimate target for other immortals."

"Was he an immortal?"

Duncan shook his head. "No… but Dawson gave me some disturbing news about mortals working with immortals."

"Here in town?"

Again he shook his head. "Paris and New York."

Tessa stormed out of the car, her Gallic temper in fine form. "Well of course I'm in danger, then. Half a world away someone helps an immortal kill another one and suddenly you think I can't be left on my own. I'm only a helpless woman, after all."

Duncan slammed the door on his side after getting out. "That's why some classes might help."

"Duncan, I'm an artist. I'm not a gladiator."

He leaned his hands on the side of the car while she retrieved her things from the back seat. "I'm not saying you have to be G.I. Jane on steroids… just know how to handle yourself from most attackers. In fact… I'll advertise a class for Charlie to teach. Women's Self-Defense." He gestured as if it were a sign.

Tessa snorted. "Better ask Charlie first." She turned swiftly and headed into the store by the delivery entrance. Duncan followed, not wanting her out of his sight. Their continued argument brought Angie into the kitchen.

"Oh… hi," she said brightly. "I sold the Charles II writing desk." Angie was positively bubbling.

"I'm sure even Angie would take the class," Duncan continued after nodding at the girl.

"Take what?" Angie asked.

"Self-defense class," Tessa explained as she removed her coat.

"Oh I've had them. Hanging out with bikers and the like, I picked up a lot of good moves."

"See!" Duncan pointed at Angie; his voice rising in pitch "Even Angie knows it's not safe out there."

Angie chuckled at Tessa. "What happened?"

"Flat tire," Tessa explained with a shrug. "Mac discovered someone helping me change it."

"Now even you said you thought he was picking you up," countered the Highlander.

Tessa sighed. "I don't know for certain, Mac. And stop being so over-dramatic. It was likely nothing."

Duncan leaned against the sink with his arms folded. He could be heard muttering and grumbling.

"Oh," Angie said brightly with a snap of her fingers. "A friend of yours came by. He left me his card for you to call him." She patted her jeans and then pulled out a small white card. For a moment she almost blushed again recalling how he'd kissed her hand. "Very cultured and nice. Although I felt so sorry for him."

Duncan took the card. "Why?"

"He'd lost a hand."

Duncan paled and then stared at the card. "Gerard Fleurie. It's Xavier. Damn!"

"Uh… not a friend?" Angie asked.

"Most certainly not a friend," Duncan replied darkly. He reached for the phone and swiftly called the number. The voice which answered wasn't St. Cloud's. Its British accent and timbre reminded him of someone… but he couldn't quite place the voice. "Is Xavier there?" he asked.

"Ah… MacLeod. Nice to hear from you. No… Xavier is not here at present. I will tell him you called. I'm certain you will be seeing him very soon." 

The call ended abruptly. Duncan stared at the receiver, and then slammed it down. Swiftly he grabbed the arms of both women. "We have to go… now!"

"But I have to start dinner. I even invited Richie over," protested Tessa.

Simultaneously Angie protested, "Go? Go where? The front door is unlocked."

"No time," said Duncan as he pushed them both through the back door and into Tessa's car. He feared Xavier might have tampered with his. No! Better to use Tessa's and go… "To the _dojo_."

Angie snorted as she climbed into the back seat. "Richie will be so sorry he hasn't cleaned in a month."

"Mac… you're scaring me," Tessa gasped as he pulled the car swiftly out of its parking spot.

"I'll explain later. Something Dawson said earlier."

"Oh," sighed Tessa and held on. In the back seat, Angie wondered, not for the last time, just why an antique dealer happened to have so many enemies. Had he been a terrorist in a former life? A spy? A criminal? Still life around the MacLeods was always stimulating. Too bad though about the charming Fleurie, or Xavier or whoever he was.


	53. Unholy Alliance, part 1c

**53**

Unholy Alliance, part 1.3

The afternoon sun cast deep shadows over the storefront of the _dojo_. After parking in the rear, Duncan, his hands still on the arms of the women, urged them faster into the establishment wishing he had the keys to lock the door behind them. This building was better suited than his antique store to withstand an attack… especially if guns were involved. Still, he hoped St. Cloud didn't know about this place yet. Had he been waiting just out of range this morning? Had he watched Tessa leave? Had he watched Duncan himself take off on his morning jog? Why not waylay him on jog? The Highlander was alone and without his _katana_.

With a sudden start, Duncan realized his _katana_ was still back at the antique store. "Damn!" he muttered again. He'd been getting careless recently… falling into the pattern of the last twelve years. He'd have to be certain to always have it with him now… even when jogging. At least there were weapons here. Why had Xavier waited until he was out of range to pay a visit on the store and leave his card? What game was he playing?

Inside, the main room was empty save for Charlie sweeping the floor, and Richie, book-bag still slung over his shoulder.

"Well speak of the devil," Charlie snorted. "The man shows up again. I was just telling Richie about…"

"Mac! Tess! Angie! Is everything all right?" Richie stammered.

"Everything is not all right. Xavier St. Cloud is in town. He visited the store today."

"Xavier who?" Charlie asked.

"Damn! I thought he was dead or something," replied Richie with a shake of his head.

"Take Tessa and Angie upstairs. Lock the elevator upstairs and make sure all the doors and windows are secure. Leave the lights out. Don't turn them on or answer the door unless it's me." Duncan barked orders to Riche even as he eyed the weapons on the wall. "Charlie… you go too."

"Not on your life MacLeod. You forget I was in the military. If some guy is actually stalking you… call the police. If you think something is happening now… I know weapons. I can fight."

By this time Richie had the women in the elevator and it was rising to the loft. Duncan pulled a _katana_ from a display on the wall even as his senses tingled telling him an immortal was here. "Get out of here now, Charlie!" he ordered.

It was too late. The immortal, cloaked in shadow stood at the archway. He lifted his left arm in a passive salute. The ambient light played across the steel prosthesis. "Hello MacLeod. Nice to see you. I heard you called."

"Let's go elsewhere Xavier. You know the rules."

"Ah… but I'm at a disadvantage and rules are meant to be broken… especially in this modern age."

Duncan moved ahead of Charlie. "Get out Charlie."

"Too late," Xavier replied with a beneficent smile. He whistled sharply. Two men with automatic rifles raced in and began spraying the interior of the _dojo_ with bullets. At the same time, Duncan turned and launched himself into the air against Charlie, propelling both of them into the office. Luck was with them as they crouched behind the heavy desk. Charlie tried to grab for the phone even as Duncan made a daring reach for the fire alarm. Yet even as the alarm went off… he could hear police sirens approaching. Evidently someone upstairs had already called the police.

"Let's go!" shouted Xavier. The two men and the immortal vanished out the door. Still Duncan held Charlie down while his mind leapt to all the evasions he'd have to do to keep the police uninterested in the attack. He glanced at Charlie. "When the police come… follow my lead. Don't tell them about St. Cloud. He is not for the police."

"What the hell are you involved in, MacLeod?"

"Something very old and very deadly," Duncan replied. "I can't explain now. It's better if you don't know."

"I'll hold you to that. You know for a nice guy… you seem to have a lot of enemies, MacLeod."

"Tell me about it," Duncan muttered. "Tell me about it." He had a feeling things were going to get worse from here on. Much worse.

-----

The wind off the bay lifted Duncan's hair slightly even as the first stars twinkled in the darkening sky. What had begun as a quiet day had turned into a nightmare. After being evasive with the police… the men with guns might have been a gang trying to shake him down for protection money… and dealing with Charlie's fury about being shut out of what was happening, Duncan had secured Richie and both women in a upscale hotel suite at one of the city's finest… complete with locked access to that floor. He'd rented both suites to prevent anyone else access, but had told them to stay together and keep the doors locked. "No room service!" he'd warned them. "Just wait for me."

He'd intended Charlie to go with them, but his employee had come up with something. "Those men moved like military. If you wanted mercenaries… I know who might put it together. Rick Davis."

Duncan had listened and nodded.

"Rick was never the kind of guy to just retire. I'll just bet he's gotten into something a bit shady. I wouldn't put it past him."

So Duncan had taken Charlie along with him to Davis' apartment on the far side of town. But the trip had been unfruitful. Davis was dead of an apparent drug overdose.

"Doesn't make sense," Charlie said shaking his head as they left the apartment. "Davis wasn't into drugs."

"He was eliminated," Duncan explained grimly. He'd called Dawson from a payphone and then, after retrieving his _katana_ and checking out his own car, determining it was safe, he had driven to the bay. Charlie had gone home all the while muttering about Duncan's refusal to tell him everything. But Duncan wasn't ready to explain immortality and the rules to Charlie. He didn't know if he ever would. Telling Richie and Tessa was one thing. Charlie like Angie or a hundred other mortals he'd known in his four hundred years were something else entirely. Knowing could get them killed.

He glanced up as Dawson approached, limping along the crushed white gravel path. Another man was at the Watcher's side. "MacLeod… this is Xavier's Watcher Stanley Barton. He's as disgusted with Xavier's recent breaking of the rules as I am. He's agreed to tell you where he's hiding."

Barton, a middle-aged man of average height nodded curtly. "It's not right. This using mortals with guns to make up for his own shortcomings. If he's allowed to continue… the Game will be altered forever."

"So you're willing to get involved?" Duncan asked as his gaze traveled carefully over the Watcher.

"Let's just say… he challenged you and broke the rules. You should be allowed to challenge him back. He's down on the wharf in an old, abandoned warehouse. I can give you directions."

"How do I know this isn't a trap of some sort?" Duncan asked.

"Barton's one of our best people, MacLeod. I trust him," Joe assured him.

Duncan took a deep breath and nodded as Barton gave him further directions.

-----

Not far away, Charlie DeSalvo watched his boss' meeting with the man with the cane. Charlie wasn't certain how this was important… but every time Dawson was around… something happened… something that worried MacLeod. And while Charlie understood and respected that his boss had also been well-trained in martial arts and likely military special ops… he was only one man. If someone had killed Davis… someone was very, very good. Davis was not the sort of man to have easily been murdered… much less by someone injecting him with drugs. Likely several men had been involved. Yet even that didn't ring true. Rick Davis had always been one of the most careful men of their unit. True he'd played fast and loose with some of the rules and was often a law unto himself… but he'd been a helluva SEAL. MacLeod might have more on his hands than he realized.

As the meeting ended, Charlie started the ignition and carefully followed MacLeod. Wherever his boss was going, Charlie would be there to back him up.

Darkness had fallen by the time MacLeod stopped down on the docks near a grouping of abandoned warehouses. Charlie drove past, noting which building MacLeod headed into. He circled the block and then parked near MacLeod. He holstered his service revolver and zipped up his flak jacket. Adjusting the dark knit cap on his head, he nodded to himself that he was as ready as he could be. Memories of other missions flowed through his mind as once more the intense training of the SEALS took command of his movements. He flitted from shadow to shadow… his weapon at ready… wishing he knew more about this mission other than "back up MacLeod." Carefully he entered the building, listening for MacLeod or anyone else. He breathed deeply and slowly as he advanced carefully into the dark building. He gave his eyes time to adjust to the darkness and then moved silently, his heart pounded in his chest as the adrenaline rush hit him. Hearing footsteps, he made his way to the second floor of the building… a large empty space where dim moonlight filtered through huge industrial windows covered with grating. Someone moved. Charlie aimed his gun, his finger already on the trigger.

Charlie blinked. A sword was at his neck and in the darkness he could just make out the shocked expression of MacLeod. He swallowed nervously and relaxed his finger. "Damn MacLeod! I might have killed you," he whispered.

"What are you doing here, Charlie?" MacLeod whispered back harshly. He lowered his sword.

Charlie rubbed his neck where the steel had lain. "You are in over your head MacLeod. You need backup. You are going to get yourself killed trying to do this alone."

"You can't be here Charlie. Now get out!"

Charlie shook his head. "This is a trap, MacLeod. I know it even if you don't."

His boss stared at him and then backed up a step. "I know what I'm doing. Now go home. I'll explain later."

Charlie shook his head. "You never explain, MacLeod. You just pretend nothing happened. But I've seen things since you came into my life. Whatever the hell you are, whoever you are… you need to stop being such a badass or that wife of yours is gonna be a young widow. Now let me help you."

"You can't help me, Charlie…" His voice drifted away as he turned to face a dark shadow, also carrying a sword. Whatever else he might have said to Charlie was lost in the strangled grunts as the two swordsmen attacked one another. Charlie backed up out of the way. What were these guys? Some sort of contestants in a game that required them to kill one another with swords? This was insane! Yet even as he denied what his mind came up with as an explanation, he marveled at the swift speed and skill of both contestants. Charlie had worked with bladed weapons… but nothing like this. He continued to move back and wonder at what was going on. The flickering of sparks on their blades made him think of Star Wars and its light-sabers. Attack! Parry! Riposte! Avoid! Turn! Charlie's mind was a whirl. Both of these men seemed superhuman in their efforts. Most swordfights with heavy weapons had pauses to allow the combatants a chance to catch their breath. These two men didn't falter. They kept going at a rate that even made Charlie tired just watching them. 

At the same time… the fight was almost like a dance or a ballet. It was a wondrous thing to behold. Here were two combatants going all out in a fight. They seemed evenly matched. St. Cloud, for Charlie could see the prosthesis, didn't seem at all handicapped. His crusader sword moved with confidence and style. Charlie had seen MacLeod do katas with the katana at the gym, but this was something different. The katana moved as if it were a part of him… an extension of his arm. If he had any advantage, it was that he could use both hands to power some of the strokes. As for St. Cloud, his prosthesis was also a weapon, and with it he was able to slice across MacLeod's back or arms. It was as if he were armed with two weapons. MacLeod reacted to the slices with a grimace… but pain did not seem to slow him down. _My God_, Charlie thought, _the blood loss must be horrendous for them both_.

St. Cloud managed a whirling attack that forced MacLeod back towards an open freight elevator shaft. MacLeod went down on one knee suddenly and St. Cloud swiftly kicked the Highlander in the chin. The _katana_ clattered on the floor as MacLeod's defense seemed to crumble. Then, he launched himself directly at St. Cloud, tackling him. The two rolled on the ground… both weaponless. MacLeod regained his footing first, picked up the katana and was ready to slash downward at his opponent when Charlie yelled. At the same time, automatic weapons fire erupted from an upper level, peppering MacLeod with shots. Charlie could see blood erupt from the wounds in MacLeod's chest as his boss whipped around like a rag doll, reacting to the bullets. Then he stumbled backwards and vanished down the shaft.

"I had him!" St. Cloud yelled. "You shouldn't have interfered!"

"We have to go!" another voice yelled and then Charlie saw the muzzle flash again even as bullets slammed into him. His scalp, arms and legs burned in pain. His flak jacket protected his major organs from serious harm, but at the same time, he couldn't breathe. Slowly darkness encompassed him and he knew nothing else.

-----

Special Agent Renee Delaney, US Army, Criminal Investigations Unit, had had a busy day. First, finally tracking down Rick Davis for arms smuggling after three months had resulted in finding him dead. Since drugs were not a part of his profile, Renee had instead set up surveillance on Davis' apartment. That had netted her two men… one a pony-tailed white man, the other a more slightly built black man. After following them to an antique store, she'd run a search on names and come up with Duncan MacLeod, owner of that store. The man looked less like an antique dealer than she did. His name was associated with several unsolved murders in the Seacouver area. Further investigation into his properties and associates had led her to Charlie DeSalvo… and that had led her back to Davis. DeSalvo and Davis had served in the same unit.

When MacLeod had left his antique store, she'd followed him to the bay, noticed DeSalvo also following; and called for back-up, updating her team once MacLeod and DeSalvo headed for the docks. She wasn't certain what was going down… but things looked very suspicious. By the time the team arrived, she was armored and armed. What they found inside was frustrating.

Whatever Davis, MacLeod and DeSalvo were involved in… it was deadly. Even as they climbed the stairs, they could hear automatic weapons fire. Bursting onto the second floor, they discovered a bleeding DeSalvo unconscious on the floor. Nearby was a blood trail that led to the open elevator shaft, although when she shone a light into the shaft, Delaney failed to see a body. The secondary squad indicated that a van had burst from the building and vanished. Swiftly she called for medical assistance for DeSalvo. She also knew that Brigadier General Carpenter would be grilling her within the hour. What was supposed to have been a simple operation was becoming increasingly complicated.

-----

Charlie blinked his eyes. He felt nauseous, especially if he tried to move. He touched the heavy bandage on his head and tried in vain to think clearly. Where was he? What had happened? Had it been a mission? Something to do with… Rick Davis. His head pounded while globules or orange and black oozed through his vision. A red cast covered everything and a loud gong reverberated on his eardrums. His breathing remained labored. Had he been hit? By whom? The only thing Charlie DeSalvo remained certain of… was that he didn't know what the hell was happening!

"He's coming around," said a maternal voice.

"Charlie?" came the crisp sound of MacLeod's voice. MacLeod! Of course! MacLeod was dead. He must be dead too. Charlie licked his lips. "Someone stop that damned gong from ringing." At least that's what he tried to say. What came out was more of, "Ahh… uhh… wha?"

"Don't try to talk Charlie. You're going to be all right. I swear it."

Charlie considered nodding but decided the nausea and pain he'd endure wasn't worth it. Instead his thoughts surged toward the concept of MacLeod… and tried to recall just who the man was. It had something to do with a sword. That was it… MacLeod had been fighting another man with a sword. _Wait… that can't be right!_ That must have been a film he was watching. He gave up trying to figure it out and descended into darkness once more.

-----

After calling Tessa to assure her he was fine, and reminding them to remain where they were, Duncan wandered down the hospital hall. He felt guilty about Charlie getting shot. Damn it! Why couldn't the man do what he was told! But as he considered things carefully, he realized if he had been in Charlie's shoes… he wouldn't have stayed put either. Duncan would have to explain things to Charlie… something he really didn't want to do. He never liked telling mortals about immortals and the Game. It wasn't safe. The word might get out to the wrong sources. Immediately he thought of Randi MacFarland seeing his fight with Anthony Galen. Thank goodness for Dawson taking her under his wing. The thought of all of it splashed across the pages of a newspaper or on one of the cable news networks was daunting. He and others like him would be hunted. What was happening now was only the beginning of what would happen if mortals learned who and what they were. Duncan shuddered.

"Excuse me," came a female voice with a slight Midwestern accent. "Mr. MacLeod?"

He turned to face the attractive blonde woman flashing military credentials.

"I'm Special Agent Renee Delaney with Armed Forces Intelligence."

Despite his worry about Charlie, Duncan smiled. "Military intelligience? Isn't that an oxymoron?"

"A contradiction? Well sometimes," she admitted with a shrug as she pocketed her credentials. "I need to speak to you about what happened and about Rick Davis."

"Who? And isn't this a police matter? Why are you involved?"

Renee nodded. "Normally… but my team and I may be the reason your friend DeSalvo is still alive. We arrived on the scene even as he was being shot. We'd seen you go in also. The question is: What happened to you?"

Duncan shrugged. Just what he needed. Another nosy blonde seeing things she shouldn't and being persistent about an explanation. "I dove down the open elevator shaft when the shots rang out. Knocked me out. When I awoke, I figured Charlie might be here when I couldn't find him. Now if you'll excuse me…" His voice drifted off.

Renee clasped his arm. "What is your involvement in the death of Rick Davis?"

Duncan snatched his arm away as he glared at Delaney. "I had nothing to do with that."

"I know. He was dead before you arrived. We had his apartment under surveillance. Davis was under investigation for arms smuggling. We were just closing the net when he turned up dead."

"Can't help you," Duncan shrugged. "My place of business was shot up and Charlie… Mr. DeSalvo suggested we check out his friend Davis who might have been involved in getting together a military wet team."

"That would be _**DeSalvo's Martial Arts**_?" Renee nodded. "I read the police report. Davis' name wasn't mentioned."

"I was doing my own investigation."

Renee chortled slightly and then flashed him a wide smile. "You don't like turning things over to the proper authorities do you? You move like you've been in the military… but I couldn't find anything under the name Duncan MacLeod."

Duncan clasped his hands and grunted, "I did my time." It was the truth, if not the whole truth.

"What do you know about Davis and his operations?"

"Nothing."

"Who were the men who fired on you?"

Duncan drew a long deep breath. "I don't know." A vein pounded near his eye. He could feel it. Damn Horton and St. Cloud! He hated out and out lying. Time to end this! "Now if you don't mind, I'm on the way to the chapel to pray for my friend's life." He pivoted and strode off stiffly. 

Delaney watched him go. She would have to keep an eye on him. He knew something but was not willing to share the information… at least not yet. She'd have to work on him.


	54. Unholy Alliance, part 1d

**54**

_**Unholy Alliance, part 1.4**_

Joe Dawson spent another sleepless night, but this time it had to do with work rather than his own conscience. His people were busy all night collating all the information on the attack at the _dojo_ and the subsequent shootout at the warehouse; but so far the only person clearly identified remained Xavier St. Cloud. "Who the hell is working with you?" Joe muttered as he read over the reports again. His eyes burned and despite swallowing a handful of _Vicodin_, phantom pain from his long-missing legs assaulted him in burning waves. He was tired. He was short tempered. And he was frustrated. Once again he wished he were only Duncan MacLeod's Watcher and not the coordinator of an entire region. How did anyone do this job? Joe had never wanted a desk job. He wanted to be in the field… he wanted to watch, record, and cheer on _his_ immortal. He truly believed Duncan MacLeod ought to be the one in the end. Despite his age, Duncan's humanity set him apart from so many of the other immortals who thought they were so much better than the men and women around them. Unlike them, MacLeod cared about people and about right and wrong.

Sitting back in his chair with a heavy sigh, Joe made a decision. He'd put in his resignation today. Or if not today… certainly tomorrow. Horton had phoned earlier to say he'd been delayed but would be in town tonight. He still wanted to see Joe. Dawson also had an appointment at the hospital to have his prostheses checked. And… he wanted to check on Charlie DeSalvo as well as see how MacLeod was doing and what he knew about St. Cloud's men. Wearily he pushed the chair back and rose, unsteadily leaning on his cane when vertigo hit him. He had to give up this damn job! Right now, even the prospect of running _**Juniper Street Books**_ seemed attractive. Wearily he limped from his office. He needed a change… and he needed it now. If he didn't get out from behind this desk soon… this job would kill him. If not quickly… then slowly… day by day, report by report, tension headache by tension headache. Joe had never been a man content to sit on the sidelines. He needed to feel life about him again. He needed laughter and people. He'd have to give it some thought and figure out what he wanted and just what the Watcher Tribunal might be willing to spring for. After all, though he had run the bookstore as a cover, it had really been Horton's baby. He needed something that would allow him closer contact with MacLeod and his circle of friends and enemies without the Tribunal becoming any the wiser about his relationship with the Highlander. Whistling a snatch of a bluesy tune, he moved with a firmer step through the busy outer offices, ignoring the sounds of teletype, the murmured voices, and the clack and whir of printers, and headed outside to his car. The cold wind of the February day swirled around him, promising snow.

-----

Inside the hospital chapel, Duncan quietly stared at the dim light illuminating the plain cross. Fresh vases of flowers sat to other side of the cross and off to one side of the small chapel, candles flickered in small votives. The pews had soft blue cushions and no kneelers. It was a far cry from the type of place his parents had worshipped. Indeed, after becoming immortal, his faith had been sorely tested. He was born Catholic and he supposed he still was Catholic… but he did not practice… not really. He chuckled considering just how a mortal priest would react to his concession. For two hundred years he'd had Darius to talk to about his sins… the ones not covered by the game. But Darius was… again his memory played tricks on him. He saw again the headless body in the nave of St. Julien les Pauvre in Paris… while he knew he'd actually seen no body. And yet he had… and his cry of despair vibrated through his very being. Horton's involvement in immortal matters again brought up his friend's disappearance and made his loss ever more difficult to accept. St. Cloud using mortals with guns! The whole thing reeked of Horton and his skewed belief system that all immortals were evil. Right now, if Horton were to appear, Duncan could tear him apart with his own hands. The holy atmosphere of the chapel reacted to his murderous rage with a slight tremor. He drew in a burning breath.

"I could really use your counsel about now, my old friend," Duncan whispered to the silent brass cross. _Should he tell Charlie? Should he tell Dawson and let him recruit Charlie as he had Randi MacFarland last fall? Could he continue to work with Charlie?_ Duncan rubbed his hands over his face, noting the stubble of beard. Even without a mirror, he also knew there were dark circles around his eyes and that he looked almost as tired as he felt. He drew in a long, labored breath and then expelled a loud, almost snarling sigh.

Behind him the door to the chapel opened. He maintained his gaze on the cross, deep in his own confusion and grief. Someone slipped into the pew immediately behind him. He could smell her light, spicy perfume. Smiling he leaned back. "Ms. Delaney," he said, letting her know that he knew she was here.

"I came to apologize," Delaney whispered. "I was inconsiderate. It's just… well sometimes I get so caught up in the case I'm investigating… that that's all I see. I really do hope your friend will be all right."

A shadow of a smile crossed Duncan's face. She really did remind him a lot of Randi MacFarland. At thinking of the reporter for the second time in fifteen minutes, he made a mental note to ask Dawson how she was doing with her Watcher studies and did Dawson feel like strangling her sometimes. "Apology accepted," he replied to Delaney.

"Oh good!" grinned Delaney even wider. She leaned forward, resting her arms along the back of Duncan's pew and resting her chin on her hands. "But I suppose asking you again about your involvement with Davis is still off limits."

Duncan laughed. Maybe it was the silly grin on her face or the soft mid-Western, almost southern drawl she put on her words. Or maybe it was the way she tilted her head or just the whole situation… but laughter helped the tension ease out of him slightly. Though what he truly needed for that was Tessa massaging his muscles and nibbling on his ear. "I'm sorry Miss Delaney. I told you all I know about Davis. Charlie is the one who knew him. You'll have to ask him about him. I only met the man once when he changed a flat tire on my wife's car… and either tried to pick her up or kidnap her. I didn't like him. I felt he was involved with the shooting. But I honestly know nothing about his involvement in anything."

"Well," Delaney said, sitting up and slapping her hands against the pew back and then on her thighs. "Can't blame a girl for trying. If he tells you anything…"

"You'll be the first to know," promised Duncan. Now if she would only leave him alone.

-----

Dr. Crane looked at Joe over the top of his half-eye glasses. "Your blood pressure is up alarmingly," he commented sternly.

Joe nodded. "Yeah. Rough couple of days."

"Do I need to remind you about exercise, salt intake, _drinking_?" The last word was accented.

Joe shook his head. "Honest Doc. It's the job."

"Then perhaps a change in working conditions?"

Joe nodded, flashing the doctor his chipped tooth grin. "I was thinking the same thing myself."

"Good!" Dr. Crane glanced through Joe's chart. "Have I mentioned some of the new, lighter-weight prostheses? They'd put less strain on your heart."

"My heart is fine," Joe explained with a slight tease in his voice. For the first time in days, he actually felt like cracking a joke. When Dr. Crane winked at him, Joe nodded and sat back. "Got the message loud and clear Doc. I shall see what I can do."

"Good. Now then, lets take a look at the servos."

For the next half-hour, Dr. Crane put Joe through several exercises, gave him a new diet and some paperwork on new prostheses. "Yours are fine… but you might find some of these to your liking," Dr. Crane explained. "You're getting older. Lighter weight ones _would_ put less stress on your heart."

Joe folded the paperwork and slid it into his inside jacket pocket. "Thanks Doc. I'll look them over… but I like that these look like legs. Most of those others are skeletal only. I'd think of the **Terminator **every time I put them on."

After a few more pleasantries, Joe headed down the hallway toward the Intensive Care Unit. He paused, seeing MacLeod leaning against a glass window with the curtains drawn. He looked worried.

"How is he MacLeod?"

The Highlander adjusted his stance to give Joe a murderous glare. Joe swallowed nervously, wondering why he was the recipient of Celtic rage.

"Your man… the one you trusted… I think he was there. I think he warned St. Cloud I was coming."

Joe shook his head. "Not possible, Mac. I checked him out."

"Just like you killed Horton."

Joe paled. _What did he know?_

"Horton shot Charlie. I saw him clearly… except we both know Horton is dead… according to you."

Joe stammered. His eyes narrowed. "We buried him," he insisted, thinking instead of the planned meeting with his brother-in-law later this evening. He didn't dare tell MacLeod the truth. Damn it! James was still his brother-in-law… the husband of his sister… the mother of his niece. Even though he was estranged from them at the moment, James Horton was still family! Blood calls to blood… friendship is nothing compared to family!

"Right."

"Mac… listen…" Joe reached out to grab MacLeod's arm, almost ready to tell him everything.

The Highlander glared at him and then snarled. "Only my friends have earned the right to call me Mac."

Joe dropped his hand and the moment passed. MacLeod was right. The two men weren't friends… likely they never would be. When was it that Joe had begun thinking of the Highlander as the son he'd never have.

"We're done here," MacLeod snapped and stormed away.

Joe stared into the ICU at the pale form of Charlie DeSalvo, swathed in white bandages and surrounded by machines blinking and beeping with each of his labored breaths. "James… if he's right… if you're involved," Joe whispered to himself, "we're through… we have to be." He leaned on his cane and managed not to shudder as waves of despair moved over him. His entire life seemed dry and arid, while in his mouth the dry taste of sour ashes filled him with regrets over the life he had chosen. Shaking his head, Joe Dawson asked Charlie's condition, yet even hearing that it was guarded but stable, did nothing to ease his nagging guilt. He should have seen what James was up to long ago. He should have stopped him. How had he been so blind?

-----

The need for answers drove Duncan from the hospital. He desperately wanted to go to the hotel… see Tessa. At the same time, those damned Watchers or Hunters would be following him. For four hundred years he'd lived in the shadows. Now, no shadow was deep enough to hide him. Anyone could be following him. He had to protect Tessa and the others. Visions of seeing them both dead flickered through his mind. He shook his head, determined to get to the bottom of this and to deal with St. Cloud and his henchmen once and for all. Let them follow him. Maybe it would shake something loose.

-----

Tessa pondered the red apple in her hand. "According to the price list in the mini bar… this is a ten dollar apple. I wonder what makes it so special?"

"It's the only one left?" suggested Richie, to which Angie fell over laughing and holding her sides.

"You two slay me," she said between peals of laughter. "Here we are, over twenty-four hours locked in a hotel room and reduced to eating the contents of the mini-bar."

"Remind me to cut her off," Richie teased. "She's had enough of those little bottles to drink."

"I'm glad you two can laugh," Tessa replied. "I'm worried about Mac. And about Charlie, naturally."

Richie rose from the sofa and hung an arm comfortingly around Tessa's shoulders. "He's gonna be fine, Tess. You know Mac… the original Boy Scout… the knight in shining armor, the champion of the righteous… defender of the faithful…"

Tessa gave him a pained look. "I get the idea."

"Maybe I could sneak out, check on him and get some food," Richie suggested.

"No!" Tessa vehemently shook her head. "Those men have guns. They know what we look like… all of us." Her eyes darted to the listening Angie. "We might get Mac killed if something happens to us."

"I can do this Tess. I can flit in and out of the shadows like Lamont Cranston."

"Who?" asked Angie.

"_**The Shadow**_!" said Richie brightly. It's part of the readings for my _Contemporary Heroes in Modern Fiction _class. It's the one class I'm really getting a kick out of… and missing it today," he added sadly.

"Mac told us to stay here," insisted Tessa.

"And starve? Even Mac would appreciate my solution for getting us some food. It's either that or I'm ordering pizza." Richie folded his arms across his chest.

Tessa fought back a sob. "I'm just so worried. I hate this! I don't want to be the little woman who remains on the sidelines and waits patiently for her husband to come home."

Angie rose and hugged her boss' wife. "I fully agree, girlfriend. What shall we do? Pull out our superhero costumes and go save the day?"

Tessa found herself laughing. She appreciated that the two young people were trying to lift her spirits… and it _was_ working. She looked evenly at Richie. "All right. But be careful."

"Careful is my middle name," Richie said with a thumb's up and a wink.

"I didn't think you had a middle name," Angie said with a tilted head.

"It changes to fit the occasion," Richie replied as he pulled on his jacket and pulled a ball-cap over his eyes. "I'll be back soon as I can." He patted his pockets for his bike keys, knowing he'd have to return to the dojo for his bike; money, always too little; and the room keycard. "Got what I need. If anything delays me… I'll call the room; otherwise, I'll be back in an hour."

"Just be careful," said Tessa, kissing his cheek. Richie was touched that she cared so much. Even Angie pulled him to one side and planted one on him as if she'd never see him again. "Wow," he said with a silly grin. "Now that will keep me safe." Angie punched his arm and returned to the sofa while he waved at both of them and then opened the door.

Ten minutes later, he was on the street, noticing the creeping shadows of late afternoon. He was out… and ready to help Mac. First stop… the hospital.

-----

Pulling into the cemetery, Duncan MacLeod shifted his tense shoulders, feeling some of it leave him. He was safe here… or at least safe from St. Cloud. As for being in the open and visible to Watchers and to men with machine guns, he couldn't help it. He had to be certain. He stopped the car beside the mausoleum that read 'Horton'. Staring up at it for some moments, he recalled the last time he'd come here… how Dawson had stepped out of it and nodded that it was done… that Horton was buried. Mac had accepted that as truth… but it wasn't truth. It was a lie.

With a snarl, he shut off the ignition and stepped out of the car, slamming the _**T-Bird's**_ door as he stalked toward the mausoleum. He pulled the wooden door open roughly and stepped into the cool dim interior. He rubbed his hands over the lettering… James Horton… and then looked about for something to break into the crypt. Lifting a heavy iron candlestand, he pounded on the granite until it cracked and broke, He tossed the stand down behind him and felt inside the opening. No coffin. No body. No James Horton. The grave was indeed a sham.

"Tut tut, MacLeod," came a familiar voice behind him. "You are so very predictable."

Duncan turned to face his bitterest enemy. He was alive… and no sense of Horton being immortal or even pre-immortal hit the Highlander. Horton was just a man… but a living man.

"You're a dead man," Duncan snarled and took a step closer.

"Ah ah… Holy Ground!" Horton admonished him and then stepped back outside the mausoleum. The doors slammed shut. Duncan put his shoulder to them and slammed against them three times before they opened.

In the pale winter sunlight he saw no one move. Of course not! Horton and whoever had been helping him weren't interested in killing MacLeod right now… just torturing him. He headed for the car only to see a small white coupe pull in behind it. Randi MacFarland alit from the car, brushed a hand through her blonde hair, pulled her navy coat about her and stepped to him. "We need to talk."

"Not now," Duncan replied, pushing past her to his own car. 

She grabbed his arm. "Listen MacLeod… you've got it all wrong."

"What? What do I have wrong?" Duncan turned to verbally assault her. "Horton attacked Darius and tried to kill Fitzcairn and then me. Horton was a Watcher. Dawson is a Watcher… AND… Horton's brother-in-law. Dawson lied to me that Horton was dead. So just what don't I understand?"

Randi flinched and then reached for him. "Joe Dawson is a good and loyal friend. He's tearing himself up over all of this. He wants to be your friend. He believes in you. All you have to do is read what he writes about you to know that."

Duncan snorted, but he didn't brush her off.

"MacLeod… you two need to sit down and talk honestly with each other. The very last thing he wants is for anything to happen to you. He believes you are going to be the one."

Duncan stared morosely into her eyes. "He's lying to me."

"He's lying to the Watchers about knowing you. It's affecting his health. We've all seen how tired he is these days."

"He's the one who has to decide which side of the fence he's on. He can't sit there forever," Duncan explained. "I've lost too many friends… immortal and mortal alike to mmen like Horton and St. Cloud. I know where my priorities lie."

"Just promise me you'll talk to him," Randi insisted. Duncan nodded. She smiled and stepped back out of his way. Duncan thanked her, climbed into his car and drove off. She watched him go, her fingers on the small recorder in her pocket. Finally she pulled it out. "Have suggested to MacLeod that he should speak to Dawson and clear the air." She clicked it off and turned to leave.

-----

Richie stared through the window at Charlie's supine form on the bed and shook his head. The dojo manager did not look well at all. Besides a head wound… clearly the most serious… Charlie had one arm in a sling and bandages on his legs. While machine gun fire he'd taken had not pierced any vital organs thanks to his armoured jacket, the rest of his body had still been hit. The young man shuddered slightly, thinking about what a gunshot must feel like. Hopefully he'd never know.

He stirred to see Dawson beside him. "You keeping watch too?"

"I ought to be following MacLeod… but right now I don't think he sees it that way. How ya doin' Richie?"

"Worried about Mac," Richie admitted honestly. "I'd hoped he was here… thought there was something I could do."

Dawson shook his head. "He's an immortal. He doesn't think he needs help. It's gonna get him killed… that kind of thinking."

"But you guys can't interfere," Richie reminded the older man.

"Nope… only record. So maybe I can muse aloud a few things… kinda go over what we know… and you can listen?"

Richie grinned. "I think I can do that."

-----

Renee Delaney watched the tracking signal on her monitor. It looked like this MacLeod fellow was leaving the cemetery and headed back to the hospital. "So why the cemetery? Did you meet with someone?" she pondered. This guy was in the middle of this investigation and up to his eyeteeth in espionage. Yet he seemed a nice guy. Renee started the car after he'd passed her and followed him.


	55. Unholy Alliance, part 1e

**55**

**Unholy Alliance, part 1.5**

His arms laden with two sacks of groceries, Richie fumbled for the button to open the elevator doors. Dawson had given him a lot to think over. He wanted to discuss some of it with Tessa before approaching Mac. Underlying much of what Dawson had said was his suggestion that Richie might make a good Watcher.

"Let me help," a man said. The doors opened and the two men entered the car. When the doors shut, Richie shifted the bags to one side as he reached for his card that would allow the elevator to reach the penthouse floor. In the process, his suspicions were aroused. The other man didn't punch in a floor, but stood waiting for Richie to do so first.

"Damn!" said Richie. "I must have dropped my card. Hurriedly he pushed the 'Door Open' button and stepped out into the hallway. Without a backward glance he headed for the lobby. The more people who were around him, the better he'd feel.

The other man followed him.

-----

The darkness of early evening covered the landscape. Streetlights winked on, and inside the houses of this middle-income residential area of Seacouver, the warm glow of lamplight filtered through sheer curtains.

Duncan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He'd returned to the hospital, and managed to get Dawson's home address with a little subterfuge, but now that he was here, he no longer was certain what to do. He couldn't remain at the hospital guarding Charlie and still be able to find St. Cloud and Horton. Yet leaving Charlie worried him. Anyone could just walk into that ICU room and kill him. He'd been unable to convince the police that Charlie's life was still in danger. Besides… this wasn't a matter for the police… not really. The less they were involved, the safer it would be for him, his friends, and for the authorities.

He'd planned on checking in with Tessa again while at the hospital, but had found himself once more in the car, eager to drive to Dawson's before he remembered. He hated being apart from her. He wanted to be able to be there for her. Should he have taken them to holy ground? To the island? No… Horton knew about the island and while St. Cloud wouldn't violate its holy ground, Horton and his mortal followers would. They were safer at the hotel. It would be more difficult for Horton to get to them. Had he covered his tracks when he'd checked them in? He hoped so. He couldn't be everywhere.

And it was that thought that finally pierced his dark mood. Although helping him would put them in danger, right now he needed extra eyes. He wasn't facing just St. Cloud… immortal to immortal… but a whole host of mortal men whose one thought was likely: Kill Duncan MacLeod! Talking to Dawson was the best way to get someone else watching for others… if Dawson could be trusted.

Randi's words to him made him think that just possibly he'd misjudged the man. He opened the car door to step out when the lights in Dawson's house went out. Quickly he shut the door and waited. Dawson stepped through his front door and onto the broad porch. Then he awkwardly descended the steps. Duncan wondered why he didn't have a ramp… why buy a place with steps? Perhaps for the same reason that he actively watched MacLeod. He didn't like being reduced to a handicapped man. He was a man with special needs, but he didn't let those needs define him. 

By this time, Dawson had reached the car parked on the curb. Again, he didn't park it in the gravel driveway leading to the detached wooden frame garage… possibly he didn't like walking on gravel. Perhaps he simply liked the exercise of walking to the curb. Seeing him in his own environment, moving without knowing someone was watching him, gave Duncan small insights into Dawson's character. There was also a bit of a thrill in watching the Watcher. When Dawson's car drove off, he followed at a discreet distance.

When Dawson eventually turned down the street to the marina, Duncan circled a block before slowly pulling into the lot. He'd wanted to give the Watcher time to get where he was going. He'd timed it perfectly. He could see Dawson, cane in hand, limping along the wooden dock towards a brightly lit small cruiser. Duncan exited his car to follow him down. Halfway down the dock, Duncan realized whom Dawson was meeting. Horton! His smiling enemy helped Dawson onto the boat and the two men embraced.

Duncan's temper exploded. All the insights he had into Dawson vanished in the face of this betrayal. "Dawson!" he yelled. The two men looked up toward him as he ran forward. Horton smirked. Dawson simply stared as if the world had come to an end. Then the cruiser pulled away from the dock and sped into the darkness of the bay.

Duncan snarled and stalked back up the hill towards his car. He stopped when he saw Renee Delaney standing by it, her hands in her dark coat, her blonde hair loose on her shoulders.

"What do you want?" he grumbled.

"I have a team of investigators… a bank of computers… but every time I get somewhere… there you are."

"I'm just lucky that way," he continued.

"Who are you MacLeod? I can't find anything on you in the system."

"Just an antiques dealer."

Renee laughed. "You are anything but an antiques dealer. Talk to me. Maybe we can help one another. I don't think you're involved with this gun-running operation, but I do think you know something about these men."

Duncan paused, thinking. "Maybe you're right." He did need help and Delaney might be able to help. At least she could be a second set of eyes. "Which is your car?"

"This one," she indicated happily. "I have lots of ideas and information I can share if you tell me what's going on."

Duncan lifted her hood and pulled several wires loose, removing the distributor cap. He handed it to her. "Stop following me for number one."

She raised an eyebrow. "And number two?"

He smiled and leaned close to her, he needed time before telling her anything. "Meet me at the hospital in the morning. We'll compare notes."

She smiled. "In the morning eh? I guess I can wait. But why not now?"

He lifted a lock of her blonde hair that had fallen across her face and brushed it out of her eyes. "Because tonight… I need to finish up a few things alone."

He stepped back, turned, and headed to his car.

As he drove off, Renee shook her head. Then she went to work replacing the distributor cap. At least he hadn't asked if she had a tracking device on his car. She hummed to herself as she re-attached the wires.

-----

"I didn't know he was following me," Joe told Horton carefully. He needed to find out just how his brother-in-law was involved. He seemed all too pleased with himself after they'd seen Duncan on the docks.

"You didn't? I did," Horton smirked as he poured them both a bourbon. He turned and handed Joe a glass. "You are a getting sloppy with your assignment. You fail to know where he is at all times."

"I'm giving him some space since he knows about us," Joe replied.

"And helping him with challenges."

Joe glared at Horton. "Listen to me James. You are no longer a Watcher. You broke our most sacred oath when you began killing immortals."

"They kill one another every day. They kill mortals. I was just striking a blow for mankind."

"You murdered how many? You used your power and position to influence the game. Who knows how badly it's been changed? Darius was one immortal you should never have killed!"

Horton slammed his glass onto the table and glared. "I didn't kill Darius."

"So you keep saying… but he's missing… and MacLeod thinks he's dead."

"That's MacLeod's problem. I admit killing others… I rather enjoyed it… and given the opportunity I admit I would have taken that despicable sham of a priest's head. The very idea of one of them pretending to be a man of God… using our very beliefs to protect his own existence!" Horton snapped angrily. "He was a charlatan and a murderer!"

"You're wrong," Joe replied. "So very wrong. Had you ever met him? Heard him preach? I had."

Horton threw his hands in the air and rose to pace back and forth about the cruiser's cabin. "I didn't need to meet Hitler to know he was a monster! Darius was no different."

Joe sighed. Horton was still adrift in his illusions. Nothing had changed. He'd begged the Tribunal for Horton's life, hoping against hope that he'd come to his senses and continue to be the husband and father he had always been. But his madness seemed worse. Maybe Joe should have let the Tribunal put James to death. "Are you working with Xavier St. Cloud?" he finally asked.

Horton turned to regard Joe levelly. "Me? Work with one of them? Are you insane. I want them all dead."

Joe wanted to believe him. "MacLeod said you were there when he fought St. Cloud at the warehouse last night."

Horton threw himself into his chair. "That wasn't me… though if I had been there… I would gladly have killed them both." He smiled. "But I'm not here to talk about MacLeod. I'm here to discuss a meeting with Lynn."

Joe didn't believe him. He sipped his bourbon thoughtfully. He would have to be very careful about what he said while here. Very careful indeed!

-----

On the drive back to his house, Joe considered what to do about Horton. James would have to be stopped, and Joe had come to realize that perhaps he would have to be the one to do it. He couldn't put this off on the Tribunal, and he sure as hell wasn't going to put it on MacLeod. He'd had a hard enough time the last time keeping the Tribunal from involving themselves with MacLeod. He had to keep both the Highlander and his own involvement in MacLeod's life off the radar. He'd have to say nothing for the time being while he arranged for Horton to die. He pulled into his parking space out front of his house, and walked to the porch. After laboriously climbing the four steps, he fumbled for his keys.

"So Horton isn't dead," MacLeod said from the shadows.

Joe took a deep breath and turned toward the sound of his voice. "I didn't know for sure he was in town… I went to see him about Lynn." It was a tissue of lies. Lies MacLeod didn't accept.

"You stay the hell away from me and mine. If I see you… you are as much a target as Horton or St. Cloud." He pivoted and stormed off the porch.

Joe watched him go. His throat seemed to close up on him as he tried to call after the Highlander. Nothing came out. Perhaps it was for the best. He'd deal with James on his own and tender his resignation. He'd give MacLeod's file to someone else. That would be the hard part… giving him up and remaining on the sidelines… but he'd do it if it kept the Highlander safe. Joe still believed that Duncan was the best immortal out there… the one who should win the prize. Sadly, he turned to his front door, unlocked it and went in.

-----

A light rain had begun to fall as a sober Duncan MacLeod headed into downtown Seacouver. He felt alone and bereft of all human contact. His illusions and plans had all been shattered. Charlie lay… if not near death… at least with possible brain damage. He'd cut the chain with Dawson. Randi had been wrong about him. Duncan had been wrong about him. The man was like Horton… a lying son of a bitch. Duncan needed Tessa. She alone had the ability to calm his fears. Despite not having finished with St. Cloud and the others, he needed her… at least for tonight.

He pulled into the parking garage of the hotel, locked his car and rode the elevator to the penthouse by means of his passkey. Once there, he knocked on the door of Tessa's room. She opened it, the small worry lines on her face vanishing as she saw him, her arms opening to embrace him. "Duncan," she whispered to him as he buried his face on her shoulder. Her arms held him within the only circle of comfort that mattered.

"I needed to see you. I need you," he said in a broken voice.

"And I'm here."

He kicked the door shut, kissed her firmly as if at any moment she would vanish into thin air, and then lifted her to carry her into the bedroom and lay her on the bed. For this night, at least, the outside world with all of its problems melted away into the mists of a white landscape and she was his only reality. The taste and feel of her became his whole world. Horton, St. Cloud, Charlie, Dawson, and Renee Delaney became pale shadows on the periphery of his thoughts. He'd deal with them tomorrow. For tonight… only Tessa mattered.


End file.
